Share Paradise
by Pavlov's Daughter
Summary: This is for all who think Christine made the wrong choice. 'Her relationship with Raoul is her romantic awakening as a teenager. But her pull towards the Phantom is a sexual, soulful union.' Joel Schumacher. Formally known as 'It's Over Now'
1. Despair

A/N: This story is for all those who believe Christine made the wrong choice. Based on the characters in the 2004 movie Phantom of the Opera, to which I have no connection.

Side Note: I'm not a big fan of Raoul. Please keep this in mind as you read.

-

DESPAIR 

_A collector's piece indeed..._

_Every detail exactly as she said._

_She often spoke of you, my friend..._

_Your velvet lining and your figurine of lead._

_Will you still play_

_When all the rest of us are dead?_

He watched as the small animal pressed its hands together, a hushed, silvery jingle emitting from the golden cymbals it held tightly. Tears of bitter regret sprang up in his eyes, and he turned his face away. If only he hadn't been so irrational, so quick to condemn...

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw it. Lying upon the cold gray stone, lightly coated with a fresh flurry of snow, was the answer to his question. _Of course._ His lips parted in shock, a cloud of frozen air floating out from his gaping mouth into the wintry breeze. _Of course..._

-

_"Christine, I love you..."_

He watched her drift across the waters, her trailing glimpse back at him filled with sorrow...and just a hint of remorse. Raoul glanced at her and, following her gaze, watched their connection splinter and break. She turned her head away and looked down into the murky waters, her own salty tears dripping into the blackness. With one last fleeting look at the desolate man behind them, Raoul placed his hand across the small of Christine's back and squeezed her to him, knowing all too well the Phantom was watching.

_"You alone can make my song take flight..."_

The growing shrieks of the mob escalated, the shadows in the tunnels growing dimmer in the light of their torches. The Phantom turned slowly, staring at the cold stone walls of his lair. Picking up a metal candlestick that lay abandoned on the floor, he turned to face the blank, impassive mirrors that reflected his deformed face. Sobbing despair looked back at him as he stared at himself, his face cracked with emotion. _"It's over now, the music of the night!"_

He swung his arm back and brought the candlestick down upon the glass, shattering it with all the might he possessed. Turning, he ran to the others, smashing them to pieces in the height of his anguish. He heard the heavy footsteps of the horde of livid men as it descended into his sanctuary. Hesitating, but only for a moment, he stepped into the empty frame of the mirror and disappeared. Clutched tightly in his gloved fist was a small diamond ring.

-

Six Years Later… 

"I'm sorry, Monsieur Vicomte, but your child..."

He didn't remember the exact wording the doctor used, but Raoul remembered the gist of his explanation: Dead. Christine had birthed a stillborn. He covered his face with his hands, his long tawny hair spilling over his fingers. Taking a few short, sporadic breaths, he slowly turned his eyes upon the doctor. "May I see her?"

"I'm not sure that is a good idea, Monsieur. Your wife is..."

Raoul did not wait. He crossed the corridor in two long strides and opened the door. The bed sat on the far end of the room next to a large glass window. The lights had been turned out, upon Christine's orders, and the only glow came from the full moon that cast shadows across her face. She did not move, nor did she acknowledge his entrance. Though she was only twenty-four, in that moment she seemed ancient, with her eyes dimming to a dull gleam and her hair spilling across the hospital pillow in waves of auburn. The only signs she showed of life were the small, fluid movements of her lips. She was singing, but her voice came out in barely a whisper. Though he could not hear it, Raoul knew the song that escaped her lips. He had countless times in these past six years, whenever he awoke in the middle of the night to find Christine still awake. Softly in the darkness, she would murmur the song, so quietly that he could barely hear it...

_"Angel of Music..._

_Guide and guardian..._

_Grant me to your glory..."_

Still, as his shadow fell upon her, she did not stir. Her voice grew silent, and she only mouthed the words.

_"Who was that shape in the shadows...?_

_Whose is the face in the mask...?"_

"Christine...?" She turned her luminous eyes on him, tears softly flowing down her cheeks. Extending her hand out to him, she grasped his wrist tightly. Her fingers were cold to the touch, as if coated in ice.

"I'm sorry, Raoul..."

There was a hesitant pause. "I don't blame you, Christine."

But deep within the caverns of his mind, he did.

-

The Vicomte de Chagny walked down the street, his gaze cast downward at the cold stone road. A breeze whisked past his face, sending his hair into a whirlwind of amber behind him. A whisper tickled his ear, and he looked up.

The Opera Populaire stood before him, the ornate golden statues staring down at him accusingly, the walls black and charred. It seemed as if only yesterday he had stood at the base of those marble stairs for the first time...

He was motionless there for a moment, looking up at the deserted building in scorn, then continued on.

"Monsieur?" There was a light tap on his shoulder. "Vicomte?" Raoul turned curiously, coming face to face with a small blonde, her eyes shining brightly. "Monsieur, you are the Vicomte de Chagny, are you not?" She smiled shyly. "You may not remember me; my name is..."

"Meg Giry. Yes, of course I remember you..." Raoul put on a mask of delight, hugging her firmly, before releasing her. "Visiting the old Opera House, are you? Do you no longer fear the Opera Ghost?"

She giggled, her face mirroring that of a small child. "Not anymore, I suppose. I am not visiting the Opera House, monsieur; I am just visiting in general. Things have not changed much."

He paused, looking around and realizing she was right. "I guess they haven't. How have you been?" he asked.

Meg grinned happily, her rosy cheeks deepening to a dark scarlet. "Much better now, merci. And you? How is my dear Christine? I have not seen either of you since the wedding..."

For a moment, he didn't answer. Images of Christine ran through his mind: Christine singing her song of her Angel of Music; Christine tracing her fingers across right hand side of her face, her eyes glassy and unfocused; Christine dancing seductively with her Phantom during his _Don Juan _routine; Christine leaning up towards her Phantom, her lips meeting his, full and passionate. Looking back on it, he could not remember what caused him to say what he did. "I am well, but...but Christine left me."

Meg's eyes grew wide and round, and her mouth dropped open in surprise. "_Left_ you? But why?"

He inhaled deeply. "She was in love with someone else."

She clasped her hands around his neck and hugged him tightly. "Oh, you poor, poor man..." she murmured.

"Thank you for your concern, Mademoiselle." Giving her a small smile, he took her arm. "Let's not dwell in the past, shall we? What do you say to a drink?"

"I'd love one."

-

_"Here in this room, I call you softly,_

_Somewhere inside, hiding..._

_Somehow you know, I'm always with you._

_I- the unseen genius..."_

Christine awoke with a start. That voice...she shuddered, but not with fear. Throwing back the white linen blanket, she sat up in her bed and looked around in the darkness. Shadows danced across her face, and she looked out the window. The moon seemed to almost smile at her, as though it were a pale, colorless mask...

Standing next to the glass, she looked out across the town. Couples walked through the streets, hand in hand. It seemed ages ago she had been one of them...those feelings were long gone.

She could see her own home from the window, gigantic and dark. The house of the Vicomte and his lovely Vicomtess was only a few blocks away; she could see the fine garden pathway and her collection of beautifully exotic flowers in the greenhouse. Snow drifted lazily onto the roof, and the city slept. Footsteps echoed through the hallway outside her room. Glancing over her shoulder, she saw nurses rush past her door. Disappointed, she turned back to the window.

There was a light in her house now, but only one. _'The Vicomte has returned home for a good night's sleep,'_ she thought bitterly. She glimpsed his form in the bedroom window, silhouetted in the flickering light of a candle. Sighing to herself, she was about to turn away from the window when something caught her eye. There was movement from inside her house. Someone was with the Vicomte, and they were moving closer to the him, to _her_ Raoul. Closer...closer...

Christine watched in silence as, in her own bedroom, Meg Giry and her husband embraced.

-

"What do you mean, _she's not here?_" Raoul demanded.

"I mean exactly what I said. She was discharged, and she decided not to wait for her husband. We saw her out the door; your wife took a carriage and went home, I'm assuming," the doctor explained patiently.

"But _I was at home._ She _can't_ be there!"

"Perhaps you missed her, monsieur…" A petite, red-haired nurse ran up to the doctor, holding a small envelope. After whispering in his ear for a moment or two, the nurse handed the package to him, gave the Vicomte a small curtsey, and hurried off. The doctor studied it for a moment, then handed it to Raoul. "Yvette said she found it on your wife's night side table. It's addressed to you."

Raoul snatched it away and, after retrieving a small silver letter-opener from the pocket of his coat, slit open the envelope. There was no note inside…only a small golden ring. Christine's wedding band.


	2. Tenacity

**TENACITY**

The entrance to the Opera Populaire had been locked for five years. The occasional tourist would peer inside the windows of the theater, hoping to catch a glimpse of the mysterious, infamous Opera Ghost…but all attempts ended in discontent.

Christine expected no miracle. Should she be lucky enough to find a means of entering the opera house and locate a way down into the caves of the theater's hidden passageways, her good fortune would surely end there. With no music to soothe his ears, no audience for which to write his masterpieces, her Angel would have descended into the bottomless Hell of his own mind, and fled from his haven in misery.

The sky had been painted a deep violet, with bursts of orange and pink cresting the horizon. Christine stood before the Opera Populaire, the shadow of her form casting a deep, vibrant blue darkness in front of her. The radiant white nightgown that clothed her mirrored the paleness in her face, her teeth chattering in the chilly Parisian wintriness. The footprints her pearly satin slippers made in the snow were petite and dainty, quickly being covered by the increasing flurries of snow.

The theater itself, which had once been a brilliant golden hue, now was shadowed in gray ashes and black soot. Christine made her way up the stairs, her long nails trailing along the railing, leaving four imprints in the snow beneath her fingertips. She stood before the door, looking up at it, lost in her memories. Her gaze was drawn to the roof…the roof where she and Raoul had declared their love for one another. Christine wrapped her arms around herself, and in her mind, she heard their soft duet of tenderness and devotion in her ear…

_"Say you'll share with me one love, one lifetime…_

_Say the word and I will follow you._

_Share each day with me, each night, each morning…_

Love me- that's all I ask of you…" 

She became lost in her thoughts, murmuring the words to herself. Then, distinctly, she heard a different voice. Different, but not unrecognized…

"I gave you my music, made your song take flight… 

_and now, how you've repaid me-_

_Denied me, and betrayed me…"_

Her eyes opened, wide and glassy, her breath catching in her throat. Tears welled up in her eyes. "Oh God…my Angel…" she heard herself whimper, her voice husky and hoarse. Slowly, she reached for the door, her thoughts scattered and disjointed. _'It won't be open…but if he knows…if he wants me to come…he could unlock it…he **would**… because I know he's there…inside my mind…'_ She grasped the knob and pulled.

It did not budge.

-

"Are you lost, mademoiselle?"

Christine sat in a huddle at the base of the doors, her head resting on her arms. She looked up at the woman addressing her. Her face could not be seen, her scarf covering her nose and mouth, her eyes hidden in shadows. "Pardon me?" Christine murmured.

"Are you lost?"

Christine paused, glancing up at the angelic statues on the roof. "No, I know where I am."

"Ahh…" the old woman sighed. "But do you know where you are going?" Christine looked up at her curiously. "There are other ways to get inside, you know." The woman extended a long, gloved finger towards the darkened alley behind the theater. "Past the old fountain there is a small gate on the side of the Opera House. It looks as though it would not move, that it is cemented into the wall, but it is not. Pull it towards you, go inside, and continue until you see a winding staircase. Go down. There, you will find what you are looking for."

Christine got to her feet gently, watching the woman in disbelief and wonder. "Thank you, Madame." The old woman nodded, and though her lips could not be seen, Christine could see in her eyes that she was smiling. She turned to leave, when the woman spoke again.

"It might have taken you a long time, but you have made the right decision."

Startled, Christine turned back, but the woman was gone, vanished. In the distance, she heard a mellifluous singing, familiar to her ears. The tune she had heard long ago…

"Those who relinquish all their dreams 

_find, too late, that without risk, there is no gain…_

_Christine Daaé, don't lose faith,_

_For your contentment is now within your reach…"_

-

She felt the small stones within the cracks of the road through her slippers and into the soles of her feet, but she paid no attention. Her mind was focused, she saw only one thing before her: the gateway. The small, half-circle iron bars that hid the secret entrance to the Opera Populaire. _There._

She stooped down and dropped into the small hole that covered the entry, like a giant-sized windowsill. Clutching the black bars in her small hands, she gave a great tug, using a power she never knew she had. The gate opened easily, and Christine flew back against the corner of the brick wall. Wincing, she rubbed her back and felt a warm, sticky substance on her fingers. Bringing her hand in front of her face, she found her fingertips covered in scarlet blood. Ignoring the sharp pain that seized her lower back, Christine ducked into the entrance and stepped inside. Once inside, she peered around her, not knowing what to expect.

A long candelabra rested on its side in the center of the room, two long white candles lying nearby. The light that shined upon her was a multitude of shades, the colors dancing across her face. And at the far end of the room, a winding stone stairway. She took a few steps towards them, when something made her turn… A large stained-glass window sat magnificently before her, a blonde angel with gleaming wings looking down at her, his hands clasped around a small lyre. Christine stared at it, her lips parted slightly, recognition twinkling in her eyes. Without realization, she began to sing, her voice soft and melodious…

_"Father once spoke of an angel…_

_I used to dream he'd appear…_

_Now as I sing, I can sense him…_

_And I know he's here…"_

She reached out a trembling hand towards the glass, softly stroking the angel's face. "I remember you…" she whispered, smiling gently. Turning, she started towards the stairs.

-

He sat alone. But what surprise was there in that?

He trailed his hand over the untainted whiteness of the candle, his fingers almost dancing with the fire. There was a sharp pain on his skin, but he continued to drift his hand through the inferno, almost with a languid ennui. Barely audible, he hummed a strange, enchanting tune, dark and eerie in the shadows. In his blue-green eyes, the flame dipped and twirled.

_"…I know he's here…"_

He paused, his eyes narrowing slightly. A moment passed, and he returned to his work. After all, her voice was always in his head.

-

At the bottom of the stairs, Christine was met with an unusually small door. It was constructed a rich, dark wood, the bronze doorknob shining in the fading light. She turned it and pushed her body against the frame, hoping it would open. It did. Inside, she was greeted by the sight of a long, dark canal, filled with black water. Her eyes scanned the face of the water, searching for the wooden boat. The surface was empty. Frowning, she knelt down on the dock and extended her hand, the tips of her fingers skimming the surface. An unexpected coldness met them, and she withdrew her hand quickly. She looked around desperately, looking for _something…_

Nothing. Slowly, she removed her silk stockings, exposing her bare legs, and placed the wrinkled white cloth on the ground. She uncrossed her knees and, gingerly, dipped one foot into the water, followed by the other. For a moment, Christine just sat, watching her feet move back and forth beneath the arctic waves. Then she propped herself up on her hands and slid gracefully into the waters.

At first, the water was mind-deadening. As if she had been frozen in a block of ice, she floated, half dazed by the extreme cold. Finally, her body became numb to the waters, and she started to push herself down the canal. Her feet could not reach the ground beneath her, and she pulled her arms back and forth, propelling herself towards the darkness.

Her teeth began to chatter together uncontrollably, and goosebumps broke out on her skin. The silk robes she wore drifted behind her lazily, almost like wings in the water. Her fingers grew lost all feeling, and the tips of her hair grew hard as ice began to form. Still, she kept going.

She looked up at the ceiling above the canal, her eyelids half closed. Covered in cinders and blackened with smoke. And the lingering scent of flames… She blinked a few times, trying to bat away the icy sweat that dripped into her eyes. The walls around her grew cloudy, and she turned her gaze back to the never-ending corridor of water before her.

Fog was floating on the water. Shapes danced before her eyes. Dark shapes. She tried to swat them away, but they wouldn't leave. The mist began to enter her eyes. Blink. Blink. Gone. She swallowed a mouthful of water…the corners of her lips were open. The water was like ice as it went down her throat. It _burned_, as if she had swallowed fire.

_There._

The Iron Gate…rusted and covered in moss. _There._ It took a few moments for Christine to realize she was standing. Slowly, she walked towards the bars. Something moved within the shadows behind the gate, but it did not see her.

"Angel…?" she whispered.

Then she fainted.


	3. Reunion

**REUNION**

He had not been aware of her presence. His attention had been focused on the parchment before him, ripped and yellow and blank. Picking up a long, black quill pen, he began to sketch, smoothly and elegantly, so much of his soul pouring out through the pen and onto the paper. He always started with her eyes, round and innocent yet strangely seductive, and finished with her lips, full and beckoning. Al his work was from memory, but the image he had of her in his mind was perfectly authentic, every detail of her exactly as she was in life.

_"Angel…?"_

He stopped, the pen poised above the paper. Slowly, he turned his head and looked out upon the water. His first thought had been one of disgust- with himself. An echoing voice in his ear hissed, _"So her voice alone wasn't good enough? You had to go and recreate her in her entirety?"_ She was behind the gate, clutching the iron between her hands, her body soaked and dripping from head to toe. His second thought had been one of heart-stopping amazement. Even in his mind, she was as beautiful as ever.

But when she collapsed, falling in a heap to the floor, he realized. He _knew._ And with one fluid movement, he pulled the wooden lever connected to his gateway and stumbled towards her, eyes wide and shining.

"Christine…"

When he lifted her into his arms, he was struck by how immensely _cold_ she was, with her head lolling lifelessly from side to side against his chest and her hands laying flaccidly against her stomach. He carried her delicately to his room and laid her down on his bed, his eyes never leaving her face. Pulling the deep red silk blanket over her frail frame, he paused, his hand lingering on her shoulder. He gently slid it up her neck and to her cheek, stroking her skin tenderly, still warily expecting her to be a figment of his tragic mind.

He wanted to leave her alone, give her some privacy, but he found he could not move from his spot above her, leaning against the headboard of the bed, watching over her. And so he stayed, running his fingers through her hair and smiling for the first time in six years.

-

Raoul twirled the ring between his fingers, his eyes staring off into nothingness. Shimmers of gold reflected onto his face, casting thousands of tiny points of lights across the room. He inhaled deeply, his mind replaying the conversation he had had the morning before with Meg.

_"What do you mean, she didn't leave you?"_

_"I lied."_

_"Lied? Are you saying I slept with the man, the **husband** of the woman who was like a sister to me in my childhood?"_

_"Yes."_

_"Why is she not home, then? Where was she last night when you were…incapacitated?"_

Pause. _"She was in the hospital…"_

Raoul closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. "Oh God, what have I done?" he murmured. And now she was gone…she could be anywhere…

-

The first thing Christine saw when she awoke was the small figurine of a monkey, its eyes glassy and haunting. Its song was barely perceptible, blending in with the silence. _Masquerade…_

_"Every face a different shade…Masquerade…" _She murmured the words quietly.

Then there was another voice, and it sang to her, its tone strong, masculine, and intriguing. _"Look around, there's another mask behind you…" _She sat up and turned her head, tilting her gaze upwards. His face loomed above her, like an angel's… _"Masquerade…"_

_"Paper faces on parade,"_ she continued, her vocalizing natural and high. _"Masquerade…"_

_"Hide your face so the world will never find you…"_ His note trailed off, sad and echoing. He stared at her, beauty shining in his eyes. "You haven't been practicing, Christine," he whispered sorrowfully. "Have you forgotten?"

A tear slipped down her cheek, and he wiped it away with a black gloved finger. "I did…but when I heard you sing, I remembered." She reached for his hand and clutched it to her. "Dear, sweet Angel…"

He withdrew his hand suddenly and looked away, eyes closed. "I am no Angel," he muttered harshly. He touched the mask that covered the right side of his face which, Christine realized, was no longer pure white, but pitch black. "I am…a Creature, a Monster. Not an Angel."

Christine got off the bed and stood before him. He turned his head away from her, his gaze directed at the ground. Gently, she cupped his face in her hand, running her finger over his exposed eye. "You were always _my_ Angel. Does that not count?"

His head snapped up, and he stared at her, eyes wide. "Of course it does! You are all that ever mattered to me, Christine…"

"So you are _not_ a Monster; you are an Angel. _My _Angel…" She stepped towards him and buried her face in his lean chest, clutching his shoulders tightly. For a moment, he did not know how to respond. Then, slowly, he wrapped his arms around her and hugged her to him, stroking her hair and breathing in her ear. She shuddered suddenly.

He pulled away, ashamed. "I'm sorry…I know I'm cold…"

She gave him a small smile. "No, that tremble was not a shiver. It was…" she began, pausing as she searched for the right word.

"Pleasure?"

"Yes," she agreed, returning to his embrace. "It was pleasure."

-

"Why did you return?"

She had expected the question, but still, she was taken aback. She didn't answer right away, instead turning her gaze to the candles that lined the walls. "It was…Raoul. My dead child. _Everything._ I felt alone, unimportant…unnecessary. The only thing that kept me sane was the thought of my happiest memory…"

"That night, on the roof? With your lover?" he asked sharply.

She started to walk towards him as he sat beside his organ, her fingers stroking the small marble sculpture of the Phantom in which his expression was filled with pain and deformation. "No." She looked at him, directly in the eyes. "It was of the first time I came down here. With you." He did not reply. "And I decided I had made the wrong decision." As she watched him, he met her stare, his eyes filled with tenderness. "But where have _you_ been all this time?"

He extended his arms, indicating the chamber in which they stood. "Here. Working."

"Surely you must have left…"

He laughed, his chuckle loud and booming. "Of _course_ I left. Whether I be an Angel or a Monster, all living things must eat, mustn't they?"

"I suppose," she mused, sitting down on his rocking chair. "So you only came out to buy your provisions? How could you _live_ like that?"

Smiling, he paused and rested his chin upon his hand. "Those weren't the _only_ occasions, Christine. Most of the time, I left to see you."

"You were watching me?" she asked incredulously.

"Yes. And you were aware of it." She opened her mouth to argue, but he held a finger to her lips, and she fell silent. "Maybe not consciously, but somewhere deep inside your mind, you _knew_ I was there."

She frowned, thinking back, while he watched, amused. "I guess I _did_…on some level…" Christine turned back to him. "When?"

"Once a week, sometimes less. Usually at night, before you went to bed." She narrowed her eyes accusingly, and he raised his hands innocently. "I hope you respect me more than that, Christine. I am not without my modesty. I gave you your privacy when I felt it necessary." There was a deep silence, as Christine gazed upon the water, and the Phantom gazed upon Christine. "You and your husband did not make love often."

She turned her eyes on him penetratingly, patches of red appearing on her cheeks. He looked back on her, calm and unruffled, and she relinquished. "No. I guess we didn't."

He narrowed his eyes and leaned forward. "Why?"

Christine averted her eyes, her blush deepening. "We just…never got around to it, really. Why does it matter?"

A small smirk danced across his lips. "Simply curious."

For a reason unbeknownst to Christine, that leer infuriated her. "Curious about my sex life? Or your lack of one?"

She instantly regretted her words. His face fell before her eyes, and looked at her with fire in his eyes before standing violently and retreating to his room. "Wait…I'm sorry, please…" The crash of his door slamming shut caused the cavern to vibrate forcefully. A framed picture on the wall fell to the floor, shattering the glass in every direction. Slowly, she knelt beside it and picked it up.

Christine found herself staring at herself, folded in the embrace of the Phantom. He wore no mask; instead, both sides of his face were formed as the left one was, uncommonly handsome and tempting. Her picture self looked up at him longingly, and Christine's guilt deepened. She stood and walked towards his door, trying to think of something to say. She could hear him inside his room, singing quietly to himself.

_"This face which earned a life of endless searching,_

_a life, unfilled, that's left me bare and yearning…_

_Never should I wish-_

_Someone would love a face like this._

_How could I expect a woman's tenderness…?"_

She sat next to the door, her arms wrapped around her knees, hugging her legs to her chest. Placing the palm of her hand on the wood, she began to croon:

"_Say you want me with you, here beside you._

_Lead me, save me from my solitude…_

_Anywhere you go let me go too…_

_Angel, that's all I ask of you…"_

Slowly, the door opened, and the Phantom stared down at her, his eyes cold and hard. "Why, Christine?"

She stood up and met his gaze. "I was embarrassed…Raoul…he hardly ever…"

He nodded, looking at the floor. "I understand. No one knows what it's like better than I do."

Cautiously, she stepped towards him and leaned into his chest, waiting to see his reaction. When he once again wrapped his strong hands around her and held her to him, she relaxed. "I'm so sorry, Angel…" she murmured.

"Please don't call me that," he whispered.

She took a step back and stared at him. "What should I call you, then?"

"Erik."


	4. Passion

**A/N: **A big GRACIAS (thank you en espanol) goes out to my reviewers—**Phantom of the Past **(you are very enthusiastic…YAY enthusiasm!), **Hopeyheartbear **(glad you like it!), **Doomed Delight **(nice…thank you), **Aislin of the Shadows **(Cliffhangers are fun! And yes, I wrote two of the verses…the originals didn't fit…the first goes to the tune Mdm. Giry was singing to/scolding Joseph Buquet, the second to the tune when the Phantom sings of how his mother "feared and loathed" him), **Arwenprincessrivendell** (I'm hurrying, I'm hurrying!), **StrangeGirl **(nope, not a one-shot…what, you think I'd make a fanfic about Phantom of the Opera without the Phantom? LOL…), **Jamy** (glad to know this means so much to you as to have you get up early on a Sat. morning!), and **Neo-lover72** (I _shall_ keep going…)

I have also taken the liberty of adding a few lyrics to the lines Christine sings in _Don Juan_. Please don't sue me!

And now for the chapter that is earning this story a "PG-13" rating…get ready for some…

**PASSION**

"_No,_ Christine, you must _push_ the sound out, it cannot do it by itself. Once again, from measure sixteen." He resumed his position on the organ bench, Christine standing beside him.

_"…No thoughts within her head, but thoughts of joy…_

_No dreams within her…"_

He stood up violently, and Christine jumped. Almost apologetically, he gently placed his hand on her arm softly, murmuring, "You must bring the song from _here…_" He put his other hand lightly on her stomach, "…to _here._" Slowly he made his way up her body and to her neck, sliding his fingers to her lips until he cupped her chin in his palm. "And stand up straighter; your body is an instrument. Right now, you do not _own_ it." He gently pushed on the small of her back. "Once more."

For a moment, she did nothing, still lingering between the lines of fantasy and reality. Then she nodded and opened her mouth, only to stop again. "Ange…_Erik_, why are we doing _Don Juan_? You have spent six long years here; surely you must have done _some_ musical work…"

He smiled bitterly. "Perfection, Christine, calls for persistence." He moved his hand from her shoulder to her hip. "Besides, my _Don Juan_ became mere ash after the fire," he whispered darkly in her ear, his lips tickling the side of her neck.

Of course…she had forgotten the fire. Hesitantly, she said, "From the top, then?" Erik resumed his place on the seat and struck a thunderous chord. Clearing her throat, she started again.

_"…No thoughts within her head, but thoughts of joy._

_No dreams within her heart, but dreams of love…!_

_And as she walks, she sings of other times,_

_Of days in the sun and nights in his arms,_

_Of soft caresses and tender songs…"_

It took a few seconds for her to recognize the silence that echoed through the chamber…the organ was no longer playing. She turned to see Erik staring at her, his emerald-blue eyes glowing soothingly in the candlelight. Her cheeks colored to a deep rose, and she fiddled with a strand of hair. He stood up and tucked it behind her ear, his eyes never leaving her face.

"Why did you come back, Christine?"

"I told you, Erik…Raoul was…"

"No." He cupped his hand behind her head and leaned her face towards his. "Why did you come back _to me?_"

She gazed up at him, the same question running through her mind. And then she realized. "Because when I was with Raoul, I never felt the same as I did when I was with you. It's the difference between infatuation and…"

His lips parted slightly, and he grasped her shoulder. "And what, Christine?" he prompted.

"And love, I think."

-

As he stood on the empty stairs, looking up at the ornate French décor that lined the abandoned building, Raoul was bombarded with memories of the past and recollections from six years ago that had not left him alone in sleep. The Masquerade…he peered through the window, looking up at the staircase on which the Phantom had paraded down, dressed in his "Masque of the Red Death" costume, eyes blackened, sword drawn…

_"Christine, what are you afraid of…?"_

He had understood, maybe subconsciously, what it was she feared. Even in his skepticism, he could not deny that he had felt a presence…he wished he could call it evil, but it wasn't. It had been dark, yes, and cold…but not _evil_. Loneliness…isolation, perhaps. No comfort from anything or anyone.

Well, _almost_ anyone…

What was it about that man, that _monster,_ that called to Christine so? What was it that made her cry out to _him_ in the darkness, and weep, inconsolable, at the sight of a broken rose? What was it that he, Raoul, could not fulfill? Christine had been his…_his_ wife, _his_ Vicomtess, _his _flawless, untainted beauty. There had been a time when he had been able to take a walk down the street, arm in arm with his wife, and have men turn around and look lustily after her…she had not noticed, but Raoul had; and each time, he held his head just a bit higher. What happened to her, what made her long for something so _hideous…?_

'Pity' was the answer he gave himself. Christine felt sorry for the creature, felt he was excused for his wrong doings because of his disfigured face. Yes, Christine did not _love_ that _thing_…how could anyone?

If she did not truly care for the Phantom, which Raoul felt sure of, then it was up to him to find them and save his lovely Christine. And if she really was down in the pits of that madman's lair, he would have to slay his wife's captor. He did not realize it, but something inside him _wanted_ her to be there. If she was, he could destroy her nightmares…no more waking up in the middle of the dark to hear her singing to him, no more unnecessary tears…

But the door was locked. Stumped, Raoul ran his fingers through his hair, thinking back to something, _anything_ that could help get him inside. His mind wandered through the thick jungles of his memories of the Opera Populaire…and then, suddenly, it came to him. He was in a back room, Madam Giry's, he believed, and she was telling him a story…

_"He strangled a man…I helped him escape…took him to the Opera house…through a small gate near the back…down to the dungeons…_

_and there he lived…"_

A small gate in the back. To the dungeons. So there _was _another way into the theater… Raoul looked up at the sky; it was blackening, tiny pinpricks of light scattered through the night. Not much time… He hurried down the stairs and ran down the alley, searching…

And then he saw it. Rusty iron bars, built down in the gutter of the sidewalk. Slowly, he stepped into the trench and peered into the Opera house. He saw dusty floors, a stained-glass window…but no sign of Christine. He grasped the bars, preparing to pull, when he let out a sudden shout. A huge, plump rat scurried by, dropping in through the gate and disappearing into the darkness. Wiping a hand across his forehead, he wrapped his fists around the rails and pulled…

-

Christine wasn't sure what woke her. All she knew was that when she opened her eyes, she was greeted with an empty stillness that rang through the room, causing the black netting around her bed to flutter without a breeze. Groaning, she rolled over and buried her face in the mountains of pillows beneath her. She laid there for a few moments, listening to the varying degrees of silence. As her mind wandered, she found herself thinking more and more of Erik.

Every night was the same; when she became drowsy, she would tell him she planned to retire for the night. He would respond with a grunt, too focused on his musical work to answer, and she would leave, always with a slight, disappointed pause. And when the sun peeked over the horizon, his deep voice would awaken her softly as it called to her from above, his face floating above her as if on a cloud.

That night, however, she had barely been asleep for a half-hour when she was jolted awake. If she had been having a dream, the memory of it had escaped her. When she found she could not fall back to sleep, she silently sat up and dangled her legs over the side of the bed. Slipping a long silk red robe over her cream colored lace night gown, both a gift from Erik, she pulled open the door and stepped out.

Though the chamber was always covered in shadows, to Christine, tonight it seemed unusually dark. Her eyes scanned for him, searching for his body lurking in the corner. She saw him sitting by a table, his body hunched over his desk. As she walked around him, hidden within the blackness, he spoke, his voice clear and loud. "Couldn't sleep, Christine?"

She stopped, surprised that he knew she had entered. "No," she replied frankly. "I'm curious, Erik. Why is it that _you_ never sleep?"

Christine could see him smile, the corners of his lips turning upward slightly in the darkness. "But I do sleep, Christine. Just _very_ rarely."

"Why?" she repeated, drawing closer to him.

He straightened up and glanced at her, his eyes sparkling. "Why should I? Humans sleep when the sun goes down, during the most beautiful time of day. And for such a thing as _sleep._" He turned back to his work. "What do we accomplish by sleeping that makes it so valuable?"

Christine walked up to him, head cocked to one side. "Sometimes I miss you in the darkness, though, Erik." She kissed him softly on the cheek. "Good night."

-

She was awakened for the second time that night, but this time she knew what it was that shook her from her slumber.

The door to her room opened, then shut a moment later, allowing for a small _click_ to echo through the walls. Christine sat up and looked into the shadows. "Erik?" she whispered guardedly. Instead of answering, the figure struck a match and lit the small candle that he held in his hand. When her eyes adjusted to the light, she saw who stood in the doorway: a bare-chested Erik. His hair hung limply in his face, and he watched her in silence.

For a moment, neither of them moved. They simply looked at each other, their minds both locked on the same thought. Christine was the first to stir, slowly sliding her silk sheets off herself, her eyes never trailing from his body. Slipping off the bed gracefully, she stood before him, the hem of her nightgown caught above her thigh. Erik remained stock-still, his feet rooted to the spot, not a muscle on his body giving even the slightest twitch…until Christine placed her hand on the center of his chest. She felt him tense beneath her fingers, then he relaxed, stroking her hair wordlessly. Then he leaned towards her, slowly and dramatically, and kissed her, full and firm.

Everything after that was a whirlwind of heat and passion for Christine, all his touches and caresses melting together. She felt him on her, everywhere at once: her ears, her lips, her neck, her breasts, her hips, her legs. Nothing was left unexposed. All his actions were so different…_Erik_ was so different. Raoul…when she had made love to him, he had been gentle, quiet, almost unmoved. Erik was deep, a bottomless cavern, and when he touched her, she felt as if she was on fire.

He led her, stumbling backwards almost gracefully, to the swan-shaped bed, laying her on the blankets. Christine reached up to his face, the black mask blending in with the shadows. She held him fiercely, stroking his face, running her fingers through his hair. They became one, blood racing, a sleeping bud bursting into bloom. Fires consumed them, a raging inferno all around them. Everything was spinning wildly, out of control…and then, as Christine caressed his cheek, she felt the mask fall from his face to the ground.

Erik instantly froze within her, and, upon meeting his eyes, she found his expression to be one of stunned horror. He began to withdraw, to become cold again, when Christine pulled him to her. She reached up and kissed the right side of his face, the flesh beneath her lips warm and sweating. When she let go, he shuddered against her, and she felt a tear drip onto her bare shoulder. "My love is not for this," she murmured, stroking his deformity tenderly, "but for _this._" She placed her hand over his heart, and she felt the beating beneath her fingers quicken.

He came back to her, full and strong.


	5. Severance

**A/N **Thanks for the reviews! Hope you liked the last part…I know I enjoyed writing it! Erik with his shirt off…is there anything better? I promise that's not the last PG-13 stuff I write in here…but not in this chapter. Just some sensual fluff. Sorry to disappoint.

**_P.S:_** **Jamy**, I hope you don't mind that I borrowed your one comment for this next chapter…it was poetic, and it worked well! Let me know if you don't want me to use it.

**_P.P.S:_** I use French in this for a bit, but the most French I ever learned how to speak was "Bonjour, monsieur." I'm more of a Spanish-speaker…(¡Yo hablo español es el mejor idioma en el mundo¡Viva español!) So if I screwed up my French, please let me know.

**SEVERANCE**

No matter how hard he heaved, the gateway would not dislodge. Frustrated, Raoul let out a piercing grunt of aggravation. He peered into the blackness, straining his eyes desperately.

"Christine?" Raoul whispered into the shadows, his heart pounding loudly in his chest. "Christine…" he repeated, a little louder. _"Christine!"_ was his final call, a scream of despondency.

-

Spring was her favorite time in Erik's chambers. Beginning in the middle of March, a breeze would stream through the walls, making small ripples in the cerulean water, and the canal would become tepid and comfortable. She had been there for a little over a month, but to Christine, age did not exist. In a storm of warmth and pleasure, the concept of time melted away.

Erik watched her as she twirled her hair between her fingers, her eyes faraway, staring into nothingness, a smile lingering on her lips. "I shall be adding a short chromatic run after your high vibrato, Christine… Begin at measure forty, end at forty-nine." She gazed out at the water, unresponsive. "Christine?" It gently beat against the bank, then retreated back to the darkness. "Christine!" he said sharply, touching her forearm delicately.

She glanced back at him, smiling innocently, and pulled away, stepping towards the water. "What are you doing, Chris…" He was interrupted by a spray of water in his face. Christine giggled, a sound that filled Erik with a fiery longing, and she splashed him again. For a moment he didn't move, his face stony and unresponsive. Then, the corners of his mouth twitched, and he gave her a smile, one of the most sincere she had ever seen.

He stood from his seat slowly, his eyes locked on hers. In a few long strides, he had come to the water's edge, looking down at her with a mingling feeling of amusement and burning desire. He walked towards her as if he did not notice the water that slowly encompassed him, and Christine swam to him, suddenly serene and composed. She took his hand, almost dutifully, and met his beckoning lips. They fell back into the canal together, and Erik lifted Christine up into his arms, never breaking their kiss. He felt her hands creeping up his back, massaging his tense muscles, and his mind began to flood with a wonderful sensation: he _could_ be loved…

_"Christine!"_

The shout pierced the cavern walls, and they stopped, pausing with their lips joined together passionately. Erik felt Christine begin to tremble, and immediately he realized whose voice was calling to her.

"Raoul…" she murmured, her eyes growing wide as she looked up above her, as if searching through the ceiling of rock. She pulled away from him, her legs carrying her to entrance of the chambers, her heart beating painfully fast. Bullets of sweat trickled down her cheek.

Erik's gaze dropped to his mirror image in the waters, and his thoughts filled with visions of Christine running back to her former lover's embrace, kissing Raoul's mouth with the same fervor with which she had just kissed him. The shriveled skin that stretched his cheeks taut along the edges of the mask seemed the glow, burning in the reflection. He slammed his fist into the image, scattering droplets of water into his face.

"_Damn_ him," he heard Christine mutter. Erik looked up sharply, watching a tear crest the corner of her eye. "How _dare_ he…" She covered her face with her hands, weeping bitterly.

After a moment's hesitation, Erik waded over to her and pressed her against himself, stroking the base of her neck and whispering to her gently. Christine let herself fall into his arms, her mind floating smoothly on the edge of peaceful gratitude, her spirit soaring towards the upper limits of their haven in bliss.

-

The mistake was made the following evening. Normally Erik waited until sunset to venture out of the chambers, when the streets of Paris were shrouded in darkness and he could hide under the security of the night. That night, however, Erik threw logic away.

"Erik, it's only a headache… Forget I mentioned it."

He shook his head vehemently. "No," he replied, cutting her off. "You are in pain, my dear, and the resources to make you well are right at my fingertips." He slid his hand over the side of her face. "I'll only be gone a few moments."

"I can wait thirty more minutes, Erik."

"But I cannot. If for no other reason, Christine, think of your lessons. You cannot sing when the pulsation in your head throws you off rhythm." He stood, a faint smile appearing dimly on his lips. Taking her pale hand, he kissed her knuckles deeply, then trailed his lips up her wrist, across her arm, and to the crease of her elbow. Just as she felt his tongue on her shoulder, Erik broke away. She gave a small whimper of disappointment, her eyes wide and pleading.

"I shall be back as quickly as possible, love, and we'll continue where I left off." He arched his eyebrows seductively, then kissed her hand one last time before departing the chambers.

When he stepped out of the gateway, the sunlight that hit Erik's face was so bright and foreign to his skin that he had to shield his eyes with a black gloved hand. He closed the barred door as silently as the black shadow that extended from his feet. Without a moment's hesitation, he swept his thick velvet cape over himself and started off towards town.

-

The Vicomte de Chagny saw the cloaked figure through the stained yellow glass of the bar he so regularly attended. A hood was drawn over the man's face, and his strides were long and hurried. Something awoke within Raoul that shook him from his usual evening intoxication, and a few moments later, the door of the tavern was swinging shut.

He followed a few yards behind the stranger, down the cobblestone road towards the other side of town. With a swift, sudden movement, the figure ducked into a store. Raoul paused outside the door, looking into the window of _Le Magasin de Médecine de LaVergne_, the local drug store. A few moments later the man came out, clutching a bag in a black gloved hand. Feeling fairly certain of who this outsider was, Raoul trailed behind him, even closer than before, watching every movement he made. The sun was about to set, casting orange radiance across the city, stretching the shadows out even farther. The man was quick-footed and silent, obviously wary of something judging by his constant glances around the streets. Raoul pulled his top hat down farther over his eyes.

In the last few moments of light, the stranger made his serious error of assessment. He turned his head to look down an adjacent street, the dying rays of sunlight illuminating the right side of his face. The mask that covered his cheek that had been burned into Raoul's memory was rekindled, and an overwhelming sensation of hatred, bitter delight, and zealous vengeance churned in his stomach, causing his throat to sear with a mixture of bile and fury. The man disappeared into the alleyway, dropping into a gutter and vanishing into the shadows. In the stillness, Raoul heard the muffled yet distinctive click of a lock.

Smiling to himself, the Vicomte de Chagny turned and started his trek back towards town.

-

"Do you feel any better?" Erik asked apprehensively, leaning over her with anxious concern. He replaced the cloth on her face with a new one, running his hand over her cheek.

Christine smiled affectionately at him, placing her hand over his. "Erik, it's medicine, not a miracle. It will kick in soon enough. She reached up and wrapped her arms around his neck, lifting herself up to him.

Erik did not respond for a moment, his brow still furrowed with uneasiness, just looking down at her with an expression mixed with hesitation and lustful yearning. Then he pulled her to him, on top of him, smothering her with his lips. First on her neck, finding their way to her ears effortlessly, to the crest of her cheekbones, then into her mouth. She felt his tongue, pushing, exploring. Heat radiated from her skin, the fire overwhelming.

Abruptly, Erik paused, then lifted her back down onto the bed quickly. "Christine…" He removed one of his black leather gloves from his hand and pressed it to her forehead. "You're burning up…"

Christine clutched his wrist, her eyes wide and beseeching. "No…please, don't stop…don't stop…" She felt his indecision and pushed him to her. "Don't leave me now, Erik…you _can't_…"

For a moment, Erik felt himself give in, to respond to her fantasies with everything he possessed. But when he saw the flushed rosy color of her cheeks and odd glassiness of her eyes, he sighed and sat back. "No, Christine…you're sick, you need your…"

That was as far as he got. A deafening crash sounded from above them, followed by angry, violent shouts.

-

"Oh God…" Christine whispered hoarsely, her mouth forming a perfect circle in the candlelight. "Erik…" He didn't answer, his gaze directed at the entrance of the lair. The gate that separated them from the passages could in no way prevent a mob from getting what they wished. The yells were growing louder by the second. "How did they…?" Christine murmured, half to herself.

Erik met her eyes. "Someone must have seen me," he replied, his voice chillingly calm.

The heavy thuds of footsteps vibrated the walls, causing some of Erik's work to fall to the floor, shattering before them. "Lord in Heaven…it sounds like that have the entire French army up there…" Christine breathed.

"I committed murder, set fire to the most famous theater in all of France, and kidnapped a promising, beautiful Opera singer. Is that worthy of an official arrest?" he replied, mocking himself with a burst of momentary chuckles that filled the chamber. His chin dropped to his chest, his eyes squeezed shut. "Perhaps I deserve to have them find me."

_"Don't you say that!"_ Christine shrieked. They stared at each other, the moments becoming slower and slower, the shouts and glow of torches growing closer by the second.

"Come." Erik took her by the elbow and wrapped a blood red shawl around her shoulders. Pulling her against him, he led her to the back of the chambers and to a long velvet curtain. He pulled back the drape and revealed a bookcase Christine had seen countless times before but never inspected closely. Erik glanced at her, a fear unlike anything she had ever felt in him radiating in his eyes, before reaching behind the shelves. Turning a hidden knob, he pulled open the bookcase, revealing a secret passageway, the blackness reaching out to them like icy, skeletal hands.

Without hesitation, Christine intertwined her fingers with Erik's and stepped into the shadows. Erik did not follow, his feet rooted to the floor. She looked back at him, frenetic confusion lining her face. The expression in his eyes was shocking; she had seen it only once before…in the moment she had pressed the sparkling diamond ring into his hand six years before…

_"Christine, I love you…"_

"Christine…"

"Erik, what are you doing…?" she asked frantically, her voice shaking. "We have to get out of here…they'll be through the canal any moment now…"

His composure was unnerving. "It will never stop, Christine." She saw tears brimming in his eyes, and one slipped down his left cheek. "You don't deserve this endless running, this eternal witch hunt." He took her hand and kissed it tenderly. "The life of a fugitive is not suited for a Vicomtess." Closing his eyes, he released her into the darkness.

Christine watched him let go of her as if she was not in her body, as if she instead was watching down on them from above. She stood in numb shock, seeing his grasp leave her skin, his lips brush past her and pull away from her fingers. The earsplitting resonance of metal being ripped apart sounded from behind him, breaking her from her horrified trance. _"What are you…?"_

He shut the door, enclosing her in darkness.

"Erik!" she screamed through the door, banging her small fists against the paneling. "Erik! Erik! _Angel!"_ The last call exploded from her lips without thought. With grief-stricken desperation, she slammed herself into the frame. Again. And again. Her head hit the wood with a sickening crunch, and she fell back into the pitch blackness of the corridor. Her arms flew back behind her, hoping to catch her fall, but instead they caught…nothing. Air. Emptiness.

Christine was falling into oblivion, her skirt billowing out behind her. _"Erik…!"_ was the last thing to escape her mouth before she was enveloped in coldness. Then she was floating, carried away…

Somewhere above her, she heard singing.


	6. Solitude

**A/N **_Thanks for all the reviews! I truly appreciate them! This chapter isn't very eventful or long, but bear with me. The next one should be better._

**SOLITUDE**

The warm glow of a candle was dim, high up, out of reach. The colors that caused her head to spin were melting together, the lines indiscernible, pinpoints of light shining in the distance. Echoing mumbles rang in her ears, much like the buzzing of insects swarming around her head.

_"…evidence of head trauma, sprained wrist, bruised ribs. Nothing that won't heal with time, Vicomte. She needs her rest."_

_"Did he hit her? Is that how she got this way?"_ The new voice was sharp and direct, slicing the stillness like a knife through bread.

_"You said she had been found on the riverbank near the theater? My own personal guess, not on the record, is that she was hurt during a fall, most likely into a sewer of some sort. Perhaps she was trying to escape." _The footsteps drew closer to her, the sounds increasingly louder in her ears. _"These injuries do not appear to be from any form of abuse."_

_"Was she raped?"_

There was a hesitant, momentary silence. _"You really think that is an issue, monsieur?"_

_"Yes. Yes, I do."_

Her body was numb. She could not feel the doctor's hard, callused hands pull her legs apart, but she was aware of something…something cold…

A tired, rueful sigh. _"I don't understand how you knew, sir, but yes…there is evidence of sexual activity, from what I can see. I cannot be sure if it was consensual or…"_

_"Of **course** it wasn't consensual…the man is a monster, a demon…. Damn the bastard to Hell, where he belongs…"_ The voices grew faint, and she felt herself slip away…

-

She was dead.

No, not dead. Flying. Flying over her town, watching…waiting… A building was burning in the night, the columns of smoke rising into the air, thick and ugly. She turned her face away, towards the clouds…

Everything was white. _Heaven_ was her first thought, but when her eyes adjusted to the brightness, she saw she was in a bed. A curtain had been pulled around her, and she recognized the overly elaborate décor of the headboard. Home. _'No,'_ she told herself sharply, angrily. _'Raoul's home…'_

Christine opened her mouth to speak, but the words would not come out. Just a low hiss escaped her lips, low and rasping. Terrified, she tried again.

"Ugh…"

"Vicomtess?" a light and airy voice sounded from behind the drapes. A hand reached in and pulled the cloth away, and a round and wrinkled face smiled down on her from above. "It _was_ you I heard, Madame! Oh, the Master shall be _so_ delighted to know you're awake…" The woman clapped her hands together excitedly before disappearing in a flutter of twirling aprons.

Christine sat back on the bed, bringing her knees to her chest and hugging her legs tightly to herself. Her memory was blurred, as if she looked at it through someone else's glasses.

_"The life of a fugitive is not suited for a Vicomtess…" Lips brushing past her skin, turquoise eyes brimming with tears…_

"Oh God…_Erik!"_ she screamed, pressing her fist to her mouth and biting down fiercely. Footsteps pounded down the hall outside her room.

"Christine?"

She sank down into the comfort of the blankets. _'Lord in Heaven…'_

-

The mail had arrived at daybreak, earlier than normal. Raoul had been browsing through the letters absently when Ellen burst into his study, her cheeks red and shining. "She's awake, Monsieur! She's awake, praise God! Now we can finally know what happened to her!"

Raoul leapt up, the morning paper clutched in his hand. He wanted to see her desperately, but not for the same reason as the maid. In his mind, he had already formulated his own account of what happened. The monster had found the lovely Christine in the hospital, taken her under the cover of darkness, and left her wedding band in hopes of making her forget about her former life, her former husband. A simpering smile crossed Raoul's lips. _'Forget her husband…' _he thought, chuckling at the true idiocy of the notion. _'What utter lunacy…'_

_"Erik!"_

Raoul stopped in the middle of the hallway. Christine's shriek still echoed through the walls. Who was this _Erik_…?

"Christine?"

He drew back the drapes and saw her lying upon the mattress, her eyes hard and grief-stricken. The paleness of her skin was a mirror shade of the sheets that covered the bed. She turned away from him, pulling the covers over herself.

_'She feels unclean…'_ Raoul thought to himself. He tossed the paper to the floor and placed his hand on her arm, showing her that she was not to blame for what that _creature_ did to her. Trailing his fingers over her skin delicately, he felt her stiffen under his touch. He waited for her to relax.

She didn't.

"Oh Christine, my darling…" he murmured, almost inaudibly. "What did he do to you?"

Christine turned back to him, her eyes cold. "Leave me, Raoul. Please."

He watched her for a moment. "As you wish, dear." He retrieved the newspaper from the floor before turning one last time to her. Christine's gaze followed him, and she caught a glimpse of the headline of the paper he held in his hand.

_Mayhem at the Opera Populaire Following Raid._

Raoul met her stare, her eyes curious yet accusing, before he swept out the door in a flutter of his cloak.

-

Perhaps it was only hours, maybe as much as a few days. When she got out of bed, the sunlight that poured through the bay window was blood red…either sunrise or twilight. Her legs were unstable, and it took her a few attempts before she managed to stand without the aid of the bed stand. Releasing her grip on the table, she made her way gingerly over to the mirror that was located in the corner of the room, its ornate wooden carvings reaching up to the high vaulted ceilings. Christine looked at herself, her face ashen and gaunt. Running her hand over the foreign material that covered her body, she realized someone had changed her clothes.

She prayed it hadn't been Raoul.

Placing her palm flat on the glass, she felt her gaze being pulled up to a point above her reflection, an empty space in the mirror that should have been occupied by a white porcelain mask…as it had been six years prior…

_"Come to me, Angel of Music…"_

Christine pressed her cheek against mirror, the glass becoming smeared with her tears.

_"Say you'll share with me one love, one lifetime…_

_Lead me, save me from my solitude…_

_Say you want me…with you…here, beside you…"_

Her throat was choked with emotion, and she felt her voice crack beneath the weight of the moans that escaped her lips.

_"Anywhere you go…let me go too…_

_Love me…that's all…I ask…of…"_

She collapsed at the base of the mirror, clutching herself, covering her face with her hands. _"Erik…"_ The whisper flew past her lips in a breath of torment. "Raoul, I need you!" she called in despair, screaming in anguish. _"Please…"_

-

When he heard her beckoning, _his_ name this time, Raoul smiled to himself and got up and stepped out of the library with nimble ease, whistling to himself quietly. _'About bloody time…'_ he thought, the grin deepening.

The door to her room was shut tightly, but he heard her deep breathing through the wooden paneling. Turning the knob, Raoul peered inside and saw her lying on the ground near the mirror. The smile on his lips remained the same, but the cheerfulness in his eyes faltered. "My dear Christine…" He strode over to her and grasped her shoulders.

She turned her gleaming eyes upon him. "Please, Raoul…would you please help me?"

"It's alright, darling. I'm here, with you, beside you…" She felt his hand creep down her back…

Christine pulled away sharply. _"No!"_ she cried, turning her face from him.

"Darling, you must realize that I could never _blame_ you for anything that fiend did …"

Her gaze snapped back to him, fire burning in the iciness of her eyes. "How _dare_ you… _How dare you!"_ she shrieked. She buried her face in her hands. "The only thing Erik did wrong was loving me too much! He was full of forgiveness even though I denied him, _betrayed_ him…" Raoul's face paled, and he got to his feet quickly. "God…what have I done?" Christine turned her tear-streaked face to him. _"Please,_ Raoul, if you _ever_ loved me…help me find him."

Raoul turned to her abruptly. "If I _ever_ loved you?" he repeated faintly. "Everything I possess has become yours…my affection, my money, my house, my name! _Everything!_ And you question the tenderness I feel for you?" he shouted bitterly.

Christine stared at him. "No, Raoul. Your love is for the _idea_ of me. The _idea_ of having a woman you can call your own, a woman you can dress up in pretty gowns and show off to the other men of this town." She wiped a finger under her eye. "You don't need me. Not like he does." Standing, she walked past him to the door, grabbing her coat from the chair beside the door. "I will do this with or without your assistance. I just ask for your help."

"I can't," he replied. She looked down at the floor and nodded, stepping out into the hallway. "Wait…" he called, following her and caught her by the arm. "You misinterpret me. I truly _cannot_ help you." Raoul reached into his pocket and pulled out the morning's newspaper. Tracing his fingers over the words on the front page, he pointed to a line beneath the headline.

_"…a body was recovered in the vaults of the theater…"_

He watched her, his lips parted slightly. "He's dead, Christine. I cannot help you."

She looked up at him, her eyes wide and glassy. Slowly, she stepped back inside her room and shut the door. As soon as she heard his footsteps disappear down the hall, she ran to the bed and threw herself upon it, screaming into the pillows.

-

He stepped back into the library, his eyes shining brilliantly in the candlelight. Ellen was finishing her dusting of the fireplace, the feather duster dancing across the mantle with the grace of a swirling gown. When he entered, she turned to him and studied his expression critically. "She did not take the news so well, then?"

Raoul shook his head, his mouth twisted into an ugly scowl.

Ellen shrugged and returned to work. "Of course she wouldn't. To know her kidnapper is still out there somewhere, hiding in the shadows…"

The Vicomte did not answer. Instead, he removed the gate from over the blazing fire and tossed the newspaper in, watching the pages curl and blacken in the heat of the flames. But the words under the headline had been permanently burned into his memory…

_"…a body was recovered in the vaults of the theater, but the legendary Phantom of the Opera was not located. It seems once again he has vanished from the Opera Populaire…"_


	7. Misery

**-A/N-** _Not too many more chapters to go—But I plan to bring everything to a close in such a way that the ending of the movie still makes sense, since the 2004 film is the basis of this story. Thanks for the reviews!_

**P.S-** _I take a few liberties when I have Christine sing… I fudged a few lyrics (okay, so a LOT of lyrics) to the "Wishing You Were Somehow Here Again" song because originally she's singing about her father…in here, she's singing about her lost love. There's a slight difference in emotions there… Also, I add the song "Learn to be Lonely" in here. For those of you who aren't familiar with it, it's the song played during the credits of the movie, sung by the incredibly talented Minnie Driver._

**MISERY**

His mouth was hardened in a grimace, his teeth biting down so intensely on his bottom lip that he drew blood. The tiny crimson river flowed past his tongue, but he did not notice or care. Running a trembling hand over his cheek, Erik stared at his own image in the mirror, his eyes glassy and unfocused. He opened a drawer and removed a paper, his hand now shaking uncontrollably. Staring into her eyes, he found himself tracing her outline with his fingers distractedly. He glanced up at his reflection once again, and with a sudden, fluid movement, grabbed the frame of the mirror and shoved it backwards. The dresser swayed unsteadily, rocking back and forth on its legs.

Erik's eyes were engaged in an intense staring contest with his reflection, feeling his own self-loathing crawl within himself, slithering like a snake through his thoughts. _'How could I have ever expected to die a happy man?'_ he wondered, contemplating his own irrational optimism. And yet, for a brief, glorious time, he had thought he would spend the rest of his life in the company of the one person who made him feel wanted. "You're a foolish man, Erik," he told himself out loud. "You must learn to be lonely…" The words he sang were so soft that they were almost impossible to hear. But he sang them nonetheless, if for no other reason than to verify his own abandoned fate.

_"Child of the wilderness, born into emptiness,_

_Learn to be lonely, learn to find your way in darkness._

_Who will be there for you, to comfort and care for you?_

_Learn to be lonely, learn to be your one companion._

_Ever dreamed out in the world there are arms to hold you?_

_You've always known your heart was on its own._

_So laugh in your loneliness, child of the wilderness._

_Learn to be lonely; learn how to love life that is lived..._

_Alone."_

-

Madame Giry watched him in silence, her heart going out to him in gentle sympathy. He sat in the shadows, passing his fingers over his latest portrait tenderly. Lately, he had said little; only repeating his words of gratitude to her, and sometimes, in the darkness, she head him sing quietly to himself. But there were no hopes for conversation.

Pulling her wooden chair up beside him, she laid her small, wrinkled hand over his large, strong one. He flinched at her touch, then glanced over at her cagily. "I killed a man, Madame Giry." She didn't answer, her eyes following his hand as it wiped sweat from his brow. "Just before I escaped. He was too close…and he had a gun…" Erik's eyes became glazed and vague as his mind fell deeper and deeper into his ocean of memories. "My hand just flew to my sword. I hadn't even thought about it. It was on impulse, an instinct. And I put that blade through his heart…straight through, no second thoughts, no moment of hesitation." He locked his gaze on Madame Giry, and she watched as a tear slipped down his left cheek. "Why does it hurt, Madame? Now, after all this time?"

She stroked the side of his face, as if he were her own son. "You are human, Erik; but now, for the first time, you are _embracing_ it, with all its complications." A low hiss of a sigh flew past Erik's lips. "Loneliness, guilt…love."

He stood suddenly, violently, and grabbed the top of the wooden chair on which he had just been sitting. With one aggressive, vicious gesture, he threw it across the room. It hit the wall with a resonating crash and splintered apart, lying in pieces on the floor. A moment of uneasy silence passed between them, then Erik slowly sank to his knees, sliding down the wall until he met the ground. He covered his face with his hands, his shoulders shaking uncontrollably. His breathing was ragged, uneven. "_Damn _this beating heart."

Madame Giry watched as the man who had struck terror into the hearts of all who lived in the Opera Populaire, the man who thrived on their fear, fed off it…broke before her eyes. "You need to let go, Erik."

_"I cannot!"_ he yelled, slamming his white-knuckled fists onto his lap. "She was all I had! She was my life, my love…she was the mask I wore!" He looked up at her, eyes burning, the right side of his face glowing in the candlelight. Madame Giry recoiled. "My music is not simply notes on a staff…it is my _mind_ poured onto a piece of paper! It requires inspiration!" His face began to crumple with emotion, and he hid it within the crevices of his hands. "It requires _love."_

"Then why are you not in Paris looking for her?"

He closed his eyes. "Because the life of a fugitive is not suited for a Vicomtess."

Madame Giry looked at him incredulously. "Erik, you must have been blind! I saw desperation in her eyes when she was searching for you." She took his hand. "Do you appreciate how much you meant to her?"

"Then where is she now?" he whispered. "Why is she still with her beloved husband?"

There was a momentary pause. "And you expect her to come looking in my dead father's house for you? Erik, sometimes women need knights in shining armor to rescue them. Sometimes we need the men we love to come find us in the darkness."

She stood abruptly and left the room, shutting the door, leaving Erik alone in his thoughts.

-

The window was her only comfort. For hours upon end, Christine sat in front of it, looking out onto the city, her heart pounding painfully in her chest whenever her gaze drew close to the abandoned Opera Populaire.

It had become common knowledge in the household that the Vicomtess did not wish to be disturbed, but Ellen and a few other servants would still bustle into her room, pretending to go about their chores, but secretly attempting to see if any progress was being made in her…mental condition. Raoul never made any attempts to converse with her, instead sitting in the library or study, reading novels or practicing his swordsmanship. Sometimes at night, though, he crept into her room when she was asleep.

This way, he could admire her beauty, but not see the coldness and unexpressive deadness in her eyes.

-

Christine had never felt so alone, so utterly dead. Her mind was blank; everything she felt was encompassed in shadows. She tried desperately not to think of the future, but it was there, looming above her in the shadows Erik had once loved so dearly. What about tomorrow? The day after? Twenty years from now? Would she still be in this room, watching her life melt away into nothingness? The one throbbing question that pulsed through her veins was consuming her: Why? Why did she leave? Why had he _wanted_ her to leave? Why did he have to die? _Why was she in so much pain?_

The inky blackness of the sky did not lift what was left of her spirits. There were no stars; clouds had snuffed out any light from the heavens. Christine lay in bed, her hair spilling limply over the satin pillow beneath her head. He cheeks had grown numb to the endless tears that poured from her eyes. She no longer even noticed.

Her lips trembled, the salty water that streamed down her face dripping into her mouth. _"You were once my Fallen Angel…you were all that mattered…"_ She sang quietly to herself, but her words were aimed at a different audience.

_"You were once my Guide and Guardian,_

_Then my world was shattered…_

_Wishing you were somehow here again-_

_Wishing you were somehow near._

_Sometimes it seemed, if I just dreamed,_

_Somehow you would be here._

_Wishing I could hear your Voice again,_

_A whisper through the dying trees._

_Too many nights I've wasted in sighs._

_Please put my mind at ease…_

_A shattered rose, a haunting melody,_

_A memory lined with sorrow…_

_Symbolize a barren life,_

_As empty as tomorrow._

_Too many years fighting back tears-_

_Why won't my eyes run dry?_

_Wishing you were somehow here again,_

_Knowing we won't say goodbye._

_How can I forgive when I have yet to live,_

_Although my soul has died?_

_No more waking under the starlight's watch_

_To the comfort of my Angel's touch._

_Help me say goodbye…_

_Help me say good…"_

The door to her bedroom opened with a familiar creak. Footsteps drew close to her bed, and she felt the weight of another body lay down beside her. She closed her eyes, her pillow wetted with tears.

Raoul ran his hand over her shoulder, brushing away her hair and clutching her throat eagerly. She was faced away from him, but she knew it was him. Christine had become accustomed to her husband coming in late at night; he had done it almost every night after she returned. Perhaps he thought she was not aware of his presence, but in all likelihood, she was certain he knew.

She felt his lips on her shoulder blade, caressing the base of her neck and jaw line. His hand slithered down her body and past her hip, coming to rest on her flat stomach. He trailed his fingers over her skin, slipping under her nightgown and stroking her unclothed back. Christine remained motionless during it all; she had become an empty shell, aware yet unresponsive to the world. She let him touch her, let him dream she enjoyed his midnight visits. Deep within her mind, she pretended it was Erik who surrounded her in his arms, but she felt the differences in their lips and their embraces. She knew who it really was…and her heart wept.

-

He left while the moon was still high in the night sky. He said nothing, as always, simply departing when he was satisfied. She listened to him close her bedroom door and make his way down the corridor to his study. When she heard the click of the lock, she threw the sheets off herself and got out of bed. The moonlight illuminated the paleness of her skin, even whiter than normal. Quickly, unhesitating, she stripped from her night clothes and put on the sleek crimson dress that Erik had bought for her months ago, the one she had worn the night they had been separated, the night he died…

Christine sat at her desk, a piece of parchment laying on the tabletop before her. Slowly, she removed a jet black quill from the drawer and dipped it in a jar of blood red ink. She paused for a moment, the feathers drifting past her lips. Then she touched the tip of the pen to the paper, and she began to write…

When she was finished, she folded it within an envelope and, taking a lighted candle from beside the window, dripped a few beads of wax onto the back of the letter. She sealed it with her thumbprint and placed it on the bed. On the front, she wrote one word: _Raoul._

She threw a cloak over herself and opened her door as quietly as possible. Peering out into the darkened hallway, Christine stepped out and inched down the hall. The mansion was as still as a grave, the silence ringing in her ears. When she made it to the bottom of the grand staircase, she paused, looking around the place she had once called home. How had she lived here? Everything was so _cold,_ so despondent and unfeeling. The sculptures that watched her had stares as icy as winter, sending a shiver up her spine. Opening the front entranceway, she stepped out into the dimness of the night.

-

The letter was found a few hours later. Ellen walked briskly into the room, expecting to wake Christine, but instead, she found the note. Glancing over her shoulder hesitantly, she peeled open the envelope and read the message.

_Raoul-_

_I wish for you good health and a content life, two things I could never ensure for you. Do not mourn me. I have found myself at a dead end, and I did the only thing that guaranteed me the end of my suffering. Never in my wildest dreams could I have imagined myself reaching a point that forced me to take my own life, and I pray with all my heart you never find yourself in the same position. It is an awful feeling, helplessness. I do not blame you for anything. This is of my own free will. I thank you for the moments we spent together that made me forget what I could not live without. I am sorry._

_Christine, Vicomtess de Chagny_

-

She looked down into the black waters, her toes breaching the edge of the cliff. Her horse, tied to a cherry tree twenty yards away, stamped the ground repeatedly with its hooves. Christine looked back over her shoulder, the outline of the mansion barely visible in the distance, before turning her gaze back to the rocks that jutted from the ground beneath her. Waves splashed the shore, and a gust from heaven caught her hair in an updraft of swirling auburn. A sigh whisked past her lips.

The tears that trickled from her closed eyes were a combination of utter grief and hopeful liberation. The icy droplets streamed down her cheeks and fell into the waters below. Her black cape flew widely behind her in the wind, like the wings of a Dark Angel…

_"You alone can make my song take flight…"_ she murmured to herself, half singing, half whispering.

She lifted her arms into the air, spread out from her body.

_"It's over now, the music of the night."_

Christine leaned forward and let the wind carry her away.


	8. Illusion

**A/N** _I've been getting lots of feedback from you guys…thanks! And yes, I'm aware that suicide is not the favorite subject among our readers. DON'T WORRY! I could never write a story in which a main character kills him/herself. Remember, I'm a sucker for happy endings. Though I can't guarantee a "happily ever after" every time, depressing endings just make me feel so…depressed. So don't expect one from me. There may be many miserable parts in the story itself, but I hate ending it like that. And I'm sorry if using suicide bothered you…it was necessary for the plot. You'll understand why later._

**P.S-**_I know that Raoul is not very likeable. Believe me, no one hates that dude more than me. But I want everybody to realize that at least in this story, he is not **evil.** Most of the things he does are out of jealousy or desperation. I'm not trying to defend what he does, I'm simply giving explanation. So don't completely despise him, just dislike him. A lot. Like me. Grr…._

**P.P.S-**_ I love cliffhangers! They're so much fun! Sorry, everybody. It's how my demented mind works._

**ILLUSION**

When Ellen entered his room, he knew something had happened. Her normally rosy complexion had been drained of color, and her eyes were nervous, frightened. "Monsieur Vicomte…"

She held out the letter, extending her arm with deliberate, apprehensive anticipation. His eyes skimmed the lines, catching only certain phrases. _"Do not mourn me…end of my suffering…take my own life…helplessness…my own free will…what I could not live without…"_ Raoul sank back into his chair, the note quivering violently in his hand.

"Oh God…" he whispered, his eyes glassy and bloodshot. He glanced up at Ellen. "Call the authorities. Immediately. Maybe it's not too late." The maid nodded curtly before hurrying out the door.

Raoul pressed his fingers to his thin lips until the skin beneath his nails turned a ghostly white. "_Why,_ Christine…?"

-

Upon his approach, he had, at first, been unaware of her intentions. He trailed behind, hiding in the trees and watching, gazing upon her dark beauty as his heart beat painfully quick in his chest. _'What do I say?'_ he thought dejectedly. What if she is content here? What if her Vicomte had taken Erik's place…or _what if there never was a place to take?_ Maybe Christine had been in love with her husband all along…perhaps they had gotten into an argument and she had left in rage, not in _hatred._ The uncertainties that passed through his mind filled him with doubt, left him feeling weak and hesitant.

But when she lifted her arms up, making a cross with her small body, all those thoughts vanished in a flash of horror. _She was committing suicide…_

Erik ran forwards, his cloak waving madly behind him as he sprinted towards her, his pale white mask glowing in the moonlight. He watched as she fell away from him, towards the empty space of death, and he lunged, his scream filling the air with a ringing cry.

"_Christine!"_

He saw her turn her head a moment before she disappeared. And in that split second, he saw complete shock in her eyes, utter astonishment. Erik caught a handful of her cape, the fabric seized between his fingers, and a burst of relief exploded in his chest. The joy was short lived, however, for the material proved too delicate. The cloak tore at the seams, and in a flurry of black velvet, fluttered into the shadowy stillness of night. He reached out to her arm desperately and, feeling her flesh against the leather of his gloves, locked his knees and dug his heels into the soft, muddy ground.

Christine looked back at him, the tears that streamed from her eyes shining vividly in the soft moonbeams. "Why will you not leave me? I don't want your ghost, your spirit, your _phantom!_" she spat out the last word venomously. "I want _you._" Erik fell to his knees with a groan, his legs no longer able to support him. "Stop haunting me…everywhere I turn, you're there. Your voice…it's always in my head. But I can't have you. You're dead, Erik. That's all I wish upon myself."

She tried to yank herself away from his grasp, but with a strength that surprised even himself, Erik dragged her up over the side of the precipice. They tumbled back together, Christine landing sprawled on top of him. He held her tightly by the arms, forcing her to look into his eyes. "Dead? Christine…I'm right here." He pulled her to her feet, clutching her shaking frame in his arms. Then he realized it was not her who trembled; it was him.

She wrenched away, sobbing into her palms. "How can you do this to me? What have I done to condemn myself to a lifetime of never-ending torment? _Leave me to my own discontent!_"

With one smooth motion, Erik reached up to his own face and ripped the mask from his face. Christine's eyes widened in recognition, and she took an involuntary step towards him. Picking up her hand in his own, he drew her fingers over his flesh, running them over the lines and cracks of his skin, the crevices familiar to her touch. Hesitantly she brought her other hand to his left cheek, and she stroked his face, her expression one of revelation.

Slowly, he cupped her chin in his hand and kissed her fully on the lips.

Christine held his porcelain mask in her hand, but when she felt the warm touch of his tongue to her lips, her fingers, as if led by invisible strings, released it into the waters below.

-

By the first light of dawn, the police had come to the seaside cliff. They found the Vicomte's horse tethered to a tree nearby, and they had their speculations as to what fate had met the beautiful Vicomtess.

"_Over here…!"_

The soldiers' gazes followed the pointing of a young officer, down into the bowels of the sea, along the maze of stone that jutted out from the precipice. Their suspicions had been confirmed. A cape fluttered aimlessly in the morning breeze, snagged on the steep rocks a few yards below.

"Yes." Raoul held the cloak between his fingers as the few officers on the porch watched his face, studying it. "Yes, this was hers." The captain turned and nodded to his men.

"We've put your horse back in the stables, Monsieur," he said, his voice gallingly authoritative and commanding. But at the sight of the disheveled man before him, the captain's eyes softened, and he bowed his head to Raoul. "I am sorry for your loss, Vicomte."

Raoul thanked him, his voice strained and choked, before shutting the door on them. He leaned against the wooden frame, hands pressed against the paneling, before continuing down the hallway to his study.

-

As the Vicomte de Chagny fell into his armchair, the same look of disbelief lining his seemingly aged face, Erik held Christine in his arms, his horse galloping through the early morning mist. Her arms were wrapped around his waist tightly, fiercely, as if she feared he would fall from her grasp.

Her legs were folded neatly beneath her, and she sat in a huddle on his lap. She buried her face against Erik's bare chest, beneath his coat, listening to his heart pulsing to the rhythm of the horse's hoof beats. She had no idea as to where they were, but in her blessed relief, she would have ridden to the gates of Hades with him if he had asked it of her.

Whenever she looked up at him, the same smile of comfort lingering on her lips, Erik's face would remain unresponsive, focused on whatever their destination was. But when she looked away, he stole a glimpse at her, resting against his torso, and felt a wave of…love, perhaps?…sweep through him. He fought down the tears that lined his eyes as he gazed upon her beauty. And yet, in the pits of his stomach, a surge of nausea throbbed within him. _How close he had come to losing her…for **good**…_

Christine's eyes drifted shut, and he heard her breathing become steady, regular. Erik slowed the horse to a lighter trot, and under his breath, he sang to her, his voice deep and hypnotic.

"_Face of true beauty, you've chosen,_

_But has your mind grasped what it's seen?_

_My fate held no hope for a lover,_

_Yet you're here, with me…_

_Angel of Music, your soul beckons,_

_Sing, your voice sets you free._

_Angel of Music, your protector,_

_Waits for the whisper of twilight."_

They passed beneath a grove of weeping willows, the branches brushing past Christine's face as she slept. Droplets of dew fell gently onto her skin, shimmering in the fog. Erik swept the branches aside like a curtain, revealing a long dirt pathway divided by a tall iron gate. He pulled back on the horse's reigns firmly, and it came to an abrupt stop. Drawing Christine's body into his arms, he gracefully slid off his horse, clutching her frame to his chest protectively.

Madame Giry was waiting for them, a small candle held tightly in one hand, its flame illuminating Erik in the darkness of the clouds. She pushed open the entrance, the rusty creak of the hinges resonating through the valley. "Welcome back, Erik." He nodded to her, his face impassive, before climbing the stone stairway to a majestic Victorian style manor. Madame Giry led him to the door, twisting the knob and stepping aside to allow him through. His lips echoed the vaguest reflection of a smile before he disappeared up the grand stairwell.

-

She stood on the far end of the catwalk, the blazing red lights casting crimson shadows across her face.

It took Christine a moment to realize she was dreaming, but even after this recognition, she went through the motions of her vision anyway. She gazed across the bridge, a dark, shadowy figure approaching her slowly, the black cape drawn over his face.

"_The final threshold…"_ she breathed, a whisper to herself, the words tickling her lips.

"_The bridge is crossed, so stand and watch it burn!"_ the man before her sang, his voice brash and forceful. It was not the rich, seductive voice that sent chills of desire up her spine…

Raoul stared at her penetratingly, his eyes burning with a passionate longing. _"We've passed the point of no return…" _ His hand shot out from his cloak suddenly, gripping her wrist tightly. "Your chains still are mine; you belong to _me_!" he hissed, teeth bared.

Christine turned her face away, feeling the coldness of his fingers press into the flesh of her neck and trail down her throat, the pressure of his touch physically painful. "Erik…" she called over her shoulder, all the while trying to pull away from Raoul's grasp. "Erik!"

"He's dead, Christine. Killed. Shot down like a dog on the road," Raoul murmured into her neck, his lips pulling on the lobe of her ear. "I'm all you have now. I was never one for being the second choice…but I wasn't _really_, was I? You picked me first."

"No, I…"

"Yes, you did, my dear." Raoul laughed into her face. "Can you not remember? After you kissed him in his lair six years ago…so fiery, so tender. He released you, and you didn't question it." His eyes burned with a swift anger. "You never kissed _me_ as you did _him_, Christine." She felt his hands work their way down her body. "What does he have that I lack, Christine?" He put on a mocking smirk, his fingers dancing across her hip. "The voice of an enticing demon? The face of a monster? The soul of a _murderer?_" he growled. His composure changed suddenly, a satisfied smile lining his face. "It matters not. He is dead, and I am waiting for you." Raoul took her hand gently. "Come to me, my Angel."

Her eyes flew open. "Erik!"

-

He sat next to her bed, the rays of sunlight peering through the clouds and into the window, illuminating the many colors of her hair. A few golden red strands burned like a fire against the pure white satin pillow on which her head lay motionless. Erik watched her sleep, her face calm and peaceful. Then, in her slumber, her brow furrowed, and her mouth opened slightly.

"No, I…" she murmured.

"Christine?" Erik leaned over her, taking her hand in his own.

"Erik!" Her eyelids fluttered open. She sat up, pushing herself up against the bedpost. When she saw him above her, she flung her arms around him, hiding her head in the comfort his shoulder. "Erik…Erik…my Angel…" she whispered against his powerful arm. Erik ran his fingers over her back, breathing in her aroma, absorbing her presence. His eyes closed, each breath from his lungs long and drawn out, his chest heaving.

As she lay in his arms, repeating his name over and over in her mind, she felt him shudder against her. Christine looked into his eyes and saw tears flowing down his cheeks, his body trembling. A racking moan escaped his lips, and she pulled him to her. His tears fell silently onto her neck. "Oh, Christine…what were you doing? Do you realize what almost happened?" He clutched her shoulder against him, his sobs becoming more and more desperate. "I could have _lost_ you!"

Christine touched her lips to his temple, running her hands through his straight black hair and feeling her own eyes dampen. "You were _dead_, Erik!" she whispered, entwining her fingers in his as if hardly daring to believe he was truly there. "They said you died…they killed you! Your body was found in the vaults…"

He looked up at her, eyes bloodshot. "And who told you this?"

Christine's gaze flew over his face rapidly. "Raoul…" Erik stared at her expectantly. "Oh God…" she said softly, horrified at the realization which had only just occurred to her. "He _lied._ He lied about it all." She glanced up at him, her breaths accelerated. "I was such a _fool..._"

There was a soft knock on the bedroom door. A moment later, Madame Giry stepped inside, watching them apprehensively. Christine's eyes grew wide with astonishment. "Madame Giry…?"

The old woman's lips curved into a smile, but her face as a whole remained anxious. "How are you feeling, my dear?"

Christine took Erik's hand and placed it on her cheek. "Much better now, thank you." Slowly, she slid off the bed and stood before Madame Giry. "Were you the one who helped Erik? Did you assist him in his escape?" Madame Giry nodded. Christine walked towards her, embracing her tightly and murmuring words of gratefulness in her ear. "You cannot possibly comprehend what this means to me, Madame," she whispered when she let go, a single tear rolling down her cheek. "He is my _world,_ my angel, and you brought him to me."

"You are like a daughter to me, Christine. My father's home is always open to you," she said, holding her hands out in front of her, indicating the walls that surrounded them.

Erik watched in mute silence, mouth opened slightly, Christine's words ringing in his ear deafeningly. _"He is my world…my angel…"_ He sat down on the chair beside him solidly, his eyes looking but not _seeing_. _My world…_

He felt her hand on his shoulder, and he glanced up at her, lips still parted in voiceless disbelief. Madame Giry had left, but he had not been aware of her departure. "Christine…"

She sat down on one of his legs, her arms wrapped around his neck, and kissed him passionately. Erik responded with everything he had, clutching her hips to him, zealously pressing himself against her. He ran his hands down her body feverishly, pulling her up into his arms, her legs wrapped around his waist, firmly and securely. "Oh, Christine…"


	9. Renewal

**A.N: **_Just to let you all know, the lyrics in this part are from a play called "Samson et Dalila"…yes, I did my research! It's in French…or Latin? Italian? I don't know. I have the translation after it…but they're singing the French/Latin/Italian. I'm not sure where the lines I got fit into the play, so I made it the beginning. If you know otherwise, let me know. I don't know if I'll be able to fit it in correctly, but it's always nice to know these things._

_Also, I want to thank each and every reviewer. Each time I get that email notice that says "Review Alert," I get this big, goofy grin on my face. Please keep it up, guys. You only inspire me more._

-

**RENEWAL**

_Two Years Later…_

-

"This new performance is highly anticipated by the public, Monsieur LaFerve. It is to be a full house, as promised…?"

"You need not fret, Baron. Your generous donations to the Opera de Moncharmin will not be in vain. Once we have the theater up and running it will be the most popular Opera house in Lyons…_France,_ for that matter. You will have your fame and glory soon enough…not to mention a large percentage of profits…" The Baron de La Borderie took note of the manager's subtle metamorphosis from hasty promotion to sullen displeasure.

"What makes you so certain of the theater's success, Monsieur?" the Baron questioned, raising his eyebrow.

LaFerve took a sip of his champagne, the drink bubbling violently in his small glass chalice. "Our dancers are undeniably the most skilful in this part of the country, Baron. And we have also found a new, undiscovered lead soprano…" Monsieur LaFerve pointed across the hall of the opera house to a young woman who stood anxiously awaiting the start of the play.

"She is quite attractive, Monsieur…" The Baron de La Borderie peered at her through his monocle. "But can she sing?"

"We shall see, shan't we?" Monsieur LaFerve murmured to him, smirking, his eyes locked on the girl's small physique.

"What is her name?"

LaFerve glanced at the baron hesitantly. "Well, the other performers know her only as 'Erika,' Baron," he replied after a pause. "We don't really know much else about her…"

The Baron turned to the manager sharply. "Nothing else? Where she came from? Her last name?" LaFerve dropped his gaze to the ground and shook his head. "What did you write on the programs?"

Anxiously, LaFerve fidgeted with his black bowtie with pale, pudgy fingers. "We simply wrote, 'Mademoiselle Erika as _Dalila._' It seemed sort of…mysterious, enticing in its own right."

The Baron de La Borderie watched as the woman, "Erika" as Monsieur LaFerve called her, ran her fingers through her long, curly brunette hair, biting her bottom lip nervously. There was something about her... Something that radiated the sensation of dark, hidden secrets...

-

_'How long has it been?'_ Christine asked herself moments before the curtains opened. _'It feels like an eternity…'_

As soon as the bright lights hit her face, she felt a rush of nervousness mixed with an undeniable sense of excitement. Her gaze flew to the nearest theater box on the left-hand side… _"I will be watching you…watching and waiting…you have excelled so much in the past few years…"_

She felt his gaze, even though she could not see him. He was there…inside her mind…

The man who stood before Christine reminded her a bit of Signor Piangi from Paris, considering his curly black hair, olive complexion, and obesity. He strode towards her, the listeners' attention focused on each step. He held out his hands, the fingers pointed at her chest, before reaching out and touching her cheek lightly. She took an involuntary step backwards, her ornate emerald skirt rustling against her exposed legs lightly.

_"Spento è quel sol, quel sorriso,  
Quel raggio che mi fa vivo -  
Che mi fa lieto!  
Tu alfin, Clemenza,  
Pio genio immortal  
Dal roseo riso,  
Copri il tuo viso santo  
Coll'orrida larva infernal!"_

(Extinguished is that sun, that smile,  
that ray that gave me life -  
that gave me happiness!  
But you, oh Mild One,  
pious eternal spirit  
with the rosy smile,  
go cover your holy face  
with the horrid mask of hell!)

He raised his fist dramatically, his mood changing suddenly. Christine put on a mask of shock, purposefully over-dramatic, as the man strode toward the edge of the stage, addressing her character but singing out into the audience.

_"Ah! Dannazione!  
Pria confessi il delitto  
E poscia muoia!  
Confession! Confession!  
La prova!"_

(Ah! Damnation!  
Let her confess the crime  
and then die!  
Confession! Confession!  
The proof!)

Christine cast one last fleeting look at the box, and she would have sworn she saw him nod to her comfortingly. She took a deep breath, opened her mouth, and began to sing…

-

"Damn," he murmured to himself as they sat down on the luxurious Prussian velvet seats. Raoul rummaged furiously around in his suit jacket pocket, groaning in frustration.

"What is it?" the young woman beside him asked gently, placing a white-gloved hand on his arm.

The Vicomte relinquished his search. "My opera glasses…I seem to have misplaced them."

His fiancée laughed good-naturedly, tossing her short mane of golden chestnut locks. "You seem to have misplaced a lot of things lately, dear. Just sit back and enjoy the play."

Raoul glanced at her, watching the string of diamonds around her dainty beige neck glitter in the dim lighting. In just a few short weeks, the woman beside him would be the Vicomtess de Chagny, wife of one of the wealthiest men in Paris. She was so different from Christine… Sabine was so feminine, so high-strung; these traits, both a blessing and a curse. Raoul knew his fiancée would enjoy simply hanging on his arm, listening to him talk…she would be the perfect little wife. And yet, he longed for Christine's fieriness…

Sabine ran her fingers over the back of his neck, snapping him out of his thoughts. "So, how are you enjoying the city, Raoul?" she whispered in his ear. Their trip to Lyons had been spur of the moment; Sabine had wanted to see the Opera de Moncharmin… And though operas were anything but enjoyable for him, Raoul, in his efforts to please (if not spoil indulgently) the future Vicomtess, had made all the arrangements to spend a romantic weekend in Lyons.

He smiled warmly at her. "It's beautiful, darling." After kissing her softly on the cheek, Raoul turned his attention to the program he held in his hand. _Samson et Dalila._ It had been a good seven…no, at least _eight_ years since he had even stepped foot in a theater. Dear Lord… The memories flew around his head as if sent on the wings of Heaven. His thoughts were interrupted by the deafening voice of a tenor; Samson had made his momentous introduction. Raoul glanced back at the paper. Samson was played by some Italian, a _Donato Di Carmine_. And Dalila…Mademoiselle Erika? "Sabine…" Raoul murmured, nudging his fiancée lightly. "Have you ever heard of Mademoiselle Erika?"

"Who?" she asked, her eyes locked on the man on stage.

"Mademoiselle Erika...the girl who plays Dalila."

Sabine shook her head. "I do not recognize the name. She must be new, darling." Mademoiselle Erika began her overture with a chromatic archipelago, the notes filling the air with a sweet, haunting melody. "She's quite good, whoever she is."

Raoul didn't answer. Her voice…how it reminded him of Christine's… He shuddered subconsciously.

"Are you alright, dear?"

The Vicomte blinked. "Yes, fine…"

-

The coach stopped by the gate, the moon hidden behind the clouds ominously. Christine glanced up at the house, completely encompassed in darkness, before stepping out of the carriage and signaling the driver to move ahead. Clutching her cloak to her body, she continued up the winding steps to the front door.

She still expected Madame Giry to welcome her in, but Christine kept reminding herself that Madame Giry had left for Paris a few months before in hopes of catching her daughter's new performance. Christine opened the door quietly, gazing through the glass in hopes of seeing Erik in the foyer. The corridor was blackened, covered in shadows. She stepped inside, her feet touching the soft wine-colored rug delicately.

"Erik, I got the job!" she called, her voice echoing through the room. "I'm the Opera de Moncharmin's newest diva!"

The mansion remained as silent as a tomb.

Christine set her bags down next to the closet. "Erik?" The curtains in the parlor fluttered noiselessly, and she wandered into the room, shutting the open window tightly and latching it shut. "Erik, are you home?"

Of course he was home; Erik had promised to be waiting for her when she got back. He left a few minutes early, in order to avoid the after-performance rush. "Just in case," he had said.

She looked up at the grand staircase before her, and it almost seemed to stare back. It had never appeared so foreboding, so impending as it did then… Christine shook away the thoughts of dread that lined her mind, scolding herself for her unfounded pessimism. She took a hold of the banister and started up the steps.

Christine trailed her hand along the oak paneling of the wall, a creak resonating through the hallway as she stepped on the top stair. "Erik…?"

The door to their bedroom was ajar. It was the last room in the corridor, on the left. She felt her heart beat quicken slightly…Erik always closed the bedroom door when he slept. Christine pushed it open cautiously, climactically…

A single candle flickered in the darkness. The figure that sat in the chair beside it wore no shirt, his hair combed back smoothly. Slowly, he raised his head, his face glowing in the candlelight.

Erik watched her cross the room, an enigmatic and alluring smile lining his lips. Christine was speechless with her own desires…how strong and enticing they were… The ebony mask that covered the right side of his face mirrored the shadows that danced across the room. He held a single blood red rose in his hand, a black ribbon tied tightly around the stem.

"Good evening, Christine."

-

Even before it happened, Christine had known this time was matchless, unrivaled by any other night. Erik stood and stepped towards her, running his hand up the curve of her neck to her chin. He tilted her head up towards him, but Christine pulled away, a small, captivating smile crossing her face.

She pulled off her shawl slowly and tossed it onto the bed. Erik's eyes glittered in the darkness, and he trailed his hand over the sleeve of her silk blouse. Encircling her in his arms, his fingers played gingerly with the lacing of her corset. Christine ran her palms over the sculpted muscles of his chest, kissing his skin passionately. She felt the pressure of her garments against her skin ease up and drop to the floor, and she was met with the glorious warmth of his lips at her breasts.

It was slow, careful, expectant. Sweat dripped from Christine's brow in anticipation as he lowered her onto through the black curtains and onto the bed. She led his hand as it removed her skirt, delicate and graceful. Everything about it was strange, different from the flurry of intensity and fervor she had known before. It was good. Black and white, dark and pure, a paradox in its own existence. And she wanted it…she needed it.

Christine clutched his shoulders, feeling her nails break his skin and enjoying it. She looked into his eyes for a fleeting moment and knew that he did, too. Pressing her mouth to the side of his neck, she felt a surge of wonderful, throbbing pain take over her body, and she bit down impulsively. Long red scratches left their mark on his shoulder blades, and her legs wrapped themselves around his waist. She found him, and in that moment she was in her own Heaven.

It was then that Erik, who had always been silent, always a man of concealed enigma, cried out into the night. "Christine, I love you," he said in a rush, folding his arms around her small back and pressing her to him. "I have never...known...such a love...in my entire being..." he panted into her ear. A sigh escaped his lips, and he kissed the corner of her mouth.

Christine paused, only for a brief moment, and looked into his eyes. And she knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that what he said was true.

-

Had there ever existed a contentment to compare with what she felt? No, this was true bliss, genuine and untainted in all its splendor. Christine lay against Erik's upper body, settling atop his chiseled torso, engrossing herself in his existence. She began to lose herself in the steady resonance of his soothing breaths, reminiscing about the night before…

"Christine?"

She looked up at him, her honey brown eyes softening in the subtle glow of sunlight reflected in his mask, and she trailed her fingers down his chest. "Hmm?" she murmured pensively.

For a moment, Erik remained silent. He simply gazed down at her, his hand running across her shoulders lightly. "You gave your name as Erika." It was not a question, but even without asking, Christine understood he had been taken aback by her stage name.

She buried her head deeper against him, nestling herself between his arm and his waist. "It seemed only fair, Erik. You have never received any credit, any of the honor you so desperately deserve." She traced her lips down the length of his chin and across the light shadow of developing beard along his jaw. "Even if…" -she kissed his neck, gently nibbling the lobe of his ear- "…I'm the only one who will ever know…" -her tongue crept out of her mouth and met his willingly- "…it's more symbolic…" Her words were interrupted by his persisting lips, and she did not mind. "Your spirit and my voice, in one combined…" she murmured between kisses, her voice dancing across the line that related speech and song.

Erik expected to be thrown back into reality at any moment. He awaited the end of the dream, foresaw it, dreaded it. And yet, that whisper in the back of his mind kept haunting him, deliciously, telling him this was no fantasy. Christine really lay beside him, and he was indeed holding her in his arms, and he loved her. "Christine…"

But she had drifted back to sleep, enfolded in the comfort of his embrace, small wisps of air trailing past her lips and caressing his skin. Christine did not awaken until much later, when the noontime sun was high in the sky. Something stirred within her, something not felt but sensed, and she placed her hand lightly over her stomach absentmindedly.


	10. Expectance

**A/N:** **IMPORTANTE, SENORS Y SENORITAS!** I added a section to the end of chapter 9! I'm not sure if you guys get email notice of updated **chapters**, so if you read **Renewal** soon after I posted it, go back and read it! NOW! (If you want to…)

Anywho, you people are so freakin awesome. I love you all. Only 3 more reviews until I make 100! YAY! Anyways, you all completely rock, and you make me feel so confident in myself. I thank you for that.

-

**EXPECTANCE**

-

It was almost three months before she noticed anything…on a conscious level, at least. Perhaps she had been aware, deep within the hidden corners of her mind… But even when these revelations were exposed to her, blunt and undeniable, she was shocked nonetheless…

Christine stepped past the wheels of the buggy, traces of stage makeup still evident on her cheeks and eyelids from the dress rehearsal of Faust. It had gone unexpectedly well; no mistakes, no unanticipated surprises. Erik would be pleased. She smiled to herself, momentarily wondering how he would reward her, compensate for her efforts…

The faint echoing of hoof beats met her ears from the shadowy forest that surrounded the Giry manor. She turned her head and was greeted with the sight of an approaching carriage. Christine stood in mute bewilderment; there was no one who knew of this place…

The buggy stopped a few feet from the front of the gate, the deep mauve curtains over the windows preventing Christine from seeing who sat inside. The door opened painstakingly slowly, and Madame Giry stepped out gracefully, clutching a bag in her hand. Her face had aged noticeably, the wrinkles that lined her face deep and cavernous and streaks of gray filling her once-auburn hair. Her eyes, however, were bright and youthful.

"Madame Giry!"

The aged woman stood before Christine, her presence powerful and somewhat intimidating. Smiling faintly, she leaned forward and kissed Christine's forehead softly. "How are you, my dear? Let me take a look at you." Madame Giry took Christine's hands and held them out, gazing at her softly. Her eyes lingered on Christine's midriff, and Christine stepped back suddenly.

"How is Paris, Madame?" she asked hesitantly.

Madame Giry paused briefly before answering, her gaze trailing over her face, and Christine suddenly felt as if the old lady was reading her thoughts. "Paris is as you left it, child. A city that moves forward even though it is blind, a town of both geniuses and scoundrels."

Christine nodded, taking her suitcase from her and carrying it up the stone flight of steps. "I miss it, but not for the reasons you are describing." She opened the door widely, the faint golden rays of dying light filling the foyer with a heavenly glow. Madame Giry stepped inside, looking around.

"You have taken good care of my father's house, as I anticipated. Thank you for that, Christine."

The slam of a door caused the walls to vibrate slightly. "The dress rehearsal went well. I expected nothing less," Erik's voice called from an adjacent room. "I thought we would celebrate your success." He emerged through a door in the back of the hall, dressed in black trousers and a light pallid shirt that had been opened to the navel, allowing for a sparse amount of chest hair to stand out against the pale cloth. Erik carried a slim bottle of wine in one hand, the green glass casting pinpricks of light across the room. "What do you say to some cognac, followed by…" he began. Then he caught sight of Madame Giry. Erik stopped in the middle of the hall, patches of red creeping up his cheeks beneath his mask.

"Hello, Erik."

"Madame Giry…" he stammered, fumbling hastily with the buttons of his shirt. "I had no idea you were coming back…" Erik cast a fleeting look over at Christine, who could barely withstand the sudden urge to giggle at his awkwardness. "What I mean to say is…"

"It's good to see you, too." Madame Giry strode over to him and placed a small kiss on his left cheek. "You both seem so happy," she murmured, stepping back. "Your singing career appears to be doing quite well, Christine…or should I say Mademoiselle Erika?"

Christine gaped at her briefly, eyes wide. "How did you…?" Madame Giry simply gazed back, a tiny smile lining her lips. "You never cease to amaze me, Madame," Christine murmured, shaking her head.

Madame Giry's grin deepened. "Your reputation has preceded you, Mademoiselle. You are news even in Paris." Christine shot an alarmed look at her, brow furrowed. "But the newly engaged Vicomte de Chagny has failed to make the connection," Madame Giry reassured.

"Newly engaged?" There was a hesitant moment of silence as two pairs of eyes watched Christine's face, waiting for her reaction. "Good." She nodded, glancing up at Erik. "He deserves a wife who loves him."

For a moment, no one said anything. Madame Giry walked over to Christine and took her hand. "But it appears that he is not the only one with good news," she said. Christine looked up at her sharply. "When is the baby due?"

Erik let out a loud, forceful laugh. "Christine's not pregnant!" Christine said nothing, her gaze dropping to the floor. "Tell her, Christine." She remained silent, meeting Erik's eyes tentatively. "Christine?"

"Erik…"

The bottle of cognac fell to the floor in an explosion of glass and wine.

-

"Why didn't you tell me?"

Christine sat on the edge of the bed, watching him pace back and forth across the wood flooring. She nervously chewed her lower lip, twirling a strand of hair between her fingers. Footsteps echoed from the floor below; Madame Giry was putting her things away. "I hadn't known, Erik. I…I was aware of something, something different, but I hadn't thought…"

"How long?" He stood in front of the bed, looking down at her.

She shrugged. "A few months, maybe…" she said vaguely. Christine placed her hand lightly on his arm, and he recoiled. Interlacing her fingers with his, she pulled him down on the bed.

Erik wiped the back of his shaking hand across his forehead. "Oh, Christine…why…?" he murmured, and she pressed his head to her breast, holding him in her arms.

"I'm excited for us, Erik. Scared out of mind, yes, but happy at the same time. But you…I don't understand your reaction…"

He pulled away, determined to avoid her steady gaze. "How can you be looking forward to this?"

"How can you not be?"

Erik stood violently, turning his head to her sharply. "My God, Christine, have you forgotten?" he bellowed, eyes burning. "Allow me to remind you!" He reached up to his cheek and tore the mask from his face, the skin under the porcelain shriveled and withered. His right eye seemed to glow, the skin beneath it sagging and flaccid, and his hair fell lifelessly in his face. "What fate would the offspring of a angel and demon suffer?"

Christine said nothing; she only stared, expressionless, at the man before her. "Erik, your face holds no horror for me." She stood up and kissed his right cheek tenderly.

He turned away angrily, eyes closed. "Do not presume to know what it's like to be branded the Devil's Child, Christine," he hissed icily. "Can you imagine yourself holding our child in your arms, half of it you, half of it me, literally? The left side, flawless, perfect. The right…" His voice trailed off, and he traced the creases of his skin distractedly.

"Erik." She reached up to his neck and turned his face towards hers. "You are this child's father; thus, it cannot be anything but beautiful." Christine pressed herself against him, wrapping her arms around his waist. "You know I would love this baby, no matter what it looks like."

He held his hand out to the window, pointing to the distant silhouette of Lyons, darkened against the indigo mountains and nighttime sky. "But can you say the same for them, Christine?"

-

It was the dream again.

Always the same.

Oh God, the horrific notions that had flooded his thoughts. They would have caused a more rational man to go mad… Compelled into insanity by the absence of a body beside him, driven out of his mind with jealousy and anger. "Pity comes too late…"

Erik trembled in his sleep. In his dream, she stood before him, adorned in pure, unadulterated white; and yet he knew that in her heart, she wore black. He stared at her, battles of conscience and decision igniting within his head. His desolation won out, but the other voice lingered by his ear, demanding an explanation, asking him what he was doing…

"This haunted face holds no horror for me now…" Hadn't she only just said this to him that night? Complete your thought, Christine! Twist the blade as you plunge it into my heart and spirit! Do not insult my intelligence by leaving me with this pathetic hope!

His pillow became damp with tears.

"It's in your soul…" What exactly is in my soul, Christine? What lies within the depths of these shadows that you have come to fear so? "…that the true distortion lies…"

The sensation hadn't erupted in an outburst of fire and rage as he assumed it would. It simply died. Ceased to exist. The last of his humanity faded into blackness, drained from his face just as the color had. And then the Vicomte had spoken of compassion…

They were memories…but how desperately real they all seemed… "Pitiful creature of darkness," she had said. "What kind of life have you known?" And with a sudden realization, the world wilted; all he saw was her image floating towards him, an angel in the truest sense of the word, her eyes filled with…something… "God give me courage to show you, you are not…alone…" And time stopped, along with the constant beating of his heart. Her lips…

No!

'How dare you?' his mind screamed. 'Do you realize what you have done to this beautiful creature, you **monster?** You **devil's child!**" He broke. Shattered. And the pieces were thrown to the wind. Through his tears, he gazed at her, and pulled his hands off her body. How could he touch her? How dare he touch her? Monster…creature…thing…

Christine felt him tremble. In her drowsiness, she looked up at him and saw his face, wet with tears, his eyes closed. She laid her hand across his chest, and he flinched at her touch. Her mind drifted back to sleep, a sigh floating past her lips. Soon, her breathing became regular.

Erik pulled away and got up, glancing back at her and feeling disgusted with himself.

-

Her dreams were filled with images and noises, disjointed and obscure. Sounds that haunted her thoughts came back from years ago; her father's funeral march, and the echo of bitter sobbing. Erik…?

A distant voice, and flashes of crimson. And a face…

She fell into the fire and landed in her bed. Christine was shaken her from her nightmare with a sudden jolt, and for a moment, she was completely disoriented. Christine thrashed around in the tangled linen, the sheets wrapping themselves around her. Then, slowly, her own consciousness dawned on her. "Erik?" she called into the night.

He stood out on the balcony, looking solemnly out on the darkness. Shadows danced across his bare back, and he was motionless. His arms were set against the banister, his muscles visibly tense. Christine got out of bed silently, pulling a white lace blanket over herself. Stepping out into the night behind him, she reached out and lay her hand on his shoulder.

Erik turned his head away from her. "I thought you would be so happy with him, Christine," he murmured. "When you…kissed me…I knew I could never have you. I knew he was the one you loved." He tilted his head up, gazing at the full moon. "But I also realized I could be loved, too."

It took her a moment to understand what he was talking about. "Erik…" She took his hand in her own, stroking his skin softly. "What Raoul and I had…it was based on my needs and fears. I loved him for a time, yes, but what we have…" She turned his face to hers. "…is so much deeper." Erik stared at her. "But that's not what this is about, is it?"

He closed his eyes. "What was I, Christine? In Paris?" A sigh flew past his lips. "They called me 'Phantom,' you know. The Opera Ghost. And I embraced their titles with a strange, corrupted pride. I thought I could create the most pure, beautiful music ever heard to man; I thought I could fabricate the perfect artistic realm, take it from here," he touched his finger to his temple, "to here." Erik spread his arms out in front of him, then turned to Christine slowly, looking into her eyes. "And I thought I could make you love me, because no one else would."

Wordlessly, she took his hand and placed something on his palm. Folding his fingers over it, she pushed it gently back to him. Erik opened his hand slowly. It was the diamond ring she had given to him so long ago…

He stared at it in awe. "Where did you…?"

"On your dresser," she replied before he finished asking. Christine ran her hand down Erik's neck. "I may have been Raoul's wife, but you always had a piece of my heart. It took me a while to realize just how much was yours." She brought his face down to hers and met his lips, intense and passionate. "All of it," she whispered into his mouth. Christine closed her eyes and deepened the kiss.

Erik's tears fell onto her lips, and he pulled her to him.

"I love you, Erik," she murmured. "I love you with everything I have. My soul is yours, as is my heart."

He could be loved…he could be loved…he could be loved…

He was loved.

"Christine…" Erik held the ring out to her. "Would you wear this? For me?"

She smiled at him, her own eyes dampening. "I'll wear it for us."


	11. Reminiscence

**A/N:**_ OK, last chapter I said I only needed 3 more reviews to make a hundred…and now, the total is up to (drum roll please…) 132! Wow! My hat goes off to my loyal reviewers! Reaches up to head, then realizes there is no hat to remove Umm…yeah… Anywho, you people are inspirational; I love all the wonderful comments you make about my story! You're inflating my ego to about here… stretches arms out as far as physically possible_

**P.S:**_Lots of people have commented that they weren't sure if this story was over, that they didn't know if the chapter they had just read was my last. Don't worry; I promise you will know the ending when you come to it._

_

* * *

_

**REMINISENCE**

**

* * *

**

"We will be starting rehearsals for_ Romeo et Juliet_ this week…I allotted your parts during_ Faust,_ judging mainly by your performances." Monsieur LaFerve paced slowly back and forth in front of the cast as they stood, silent, watching as the manager looked over his list. He took out a packet of loose papers and began distributing them amongst the troupe. "The size of the role is dependent on the talent you portrayed last week…" LaFerve handed Christine her lines. "…or lack thereof…" he muttered in the direction of the small blonde chorus girl who stood beside her. The girl's cheeks blushed scarlet, and she hung her head.

Christine glanced down at her papers. _Juliet_ had been printed in large, ornate script across the top. Smiling to herself, she flipped through the pages. As her lips mouthed the verses written on the paper, an unexpected throbbing erupted in her stomach, and Christine's hand flew to her abdomen, her face clenched in an expression of agonizing discomfort. The pain subsided shortly thereafter, as she knew it would. She closed her eyes, but a few moments later her eyelids flew open; she suddenly sensed the stare of an unseen person. Christine looked up sharply and was met with the sight of the Baron, who stood, motionless, in a theater box to her right. She promptly averted her gaze.

Christine had felt his eyes watching her numerous times, and each time, she found that she could not fight the chill that crawled up her spine, like icy fingers sneaking up her back.

Outwardly, the Baron de La Borderie seemed nothing out of the ordinary: light brown hair in natural tight curls atop his darkly tanned head, a thin mustache lining his upper lip. He was a bit bulky in his build, but quite tall, well over six feet. At first Christine could not decipher her unfounded suspicions, but when they had their first conversation, she understood.

_He had been standing in the hall outside her dressing room after the last performance of Faust, a single white rose grasped in his hand. He held it out to her silently. "Your performance was unmatched, Mademoiselle." The Baron placed a gentle kiss on her knuckles. "Heaven bestowed upon you an unparalleled gift. You truly have the voice of an angel."_

_"Th-thank you, Baron. How kind of you to say so…" A blush crept up her cheeks._

_"You must have an excellent teacher." The Baron's gaze was locked on Christine's face, his thumb passing lightly over the back of her hand. "He is quite fortunate to have such a remarkable student…one so talented, and uncommonly beautiful."_

_Hesitantly, Christine plucked her hand from his clutch, giving the Baron a brusque, uncoordinated curtsey. "You are too kind, Monsieur. I…I must be going. Good day."_

It had been his eyes.

Unnerving calculation lay within the deep oceans of green-gray that lined the blackness of his pupil. In those moments, she had realized that his suave, debonair ambience was only hiding an alarmingly cold cleverness. Christine looked back up at the box, the figure in the shadows still gazing down at her. She turned back to her manuscript, but her eyes only skimmed the words. Her mind was somewhere else entirely…

* * *

"It's only for a few months, Erik."

He stood before Christine and Madame Giry, visibly debating with himself. "Could she not just wait a few more weeks?_ Romeo et Juliet _is to be the next production, and Christine already has the lead role…"

Madame Giry shook her head. "Christine needs to stay out of the theater for a bit, Erik. Once she has the baby, she can return." She took Christine's hand and squeezed it tightly.

Christine's gaze dropped to the floor, her arm laying across her abdomen. "In the play, Juliet does not become pregnant, Erik. And I'm already showing a little," she murmured.

Erik sat down on the armchair across the room from the couch where the two women sat. Christine cast a pleading look at Madame Giry, who smiled gently and patted Christine's knee before standing and striding out of the room. Christine rose from her seat and walked over to Erik, sitting on her heels next to him. She took his hand and put it on her cheek, looking up at him, eyes wide. "Don't think for a moment that I want to leave the opera. But people will begin to ask questions…questions I am not prepared to answer."

"I need you to sing for me, Christine. When I listen to you sing, I feel as if I am back in Paris, back in my sanctuary, down in the vaults of the theater." He glanced up at her, his green-blue eyes sharp and direct. "In those six years when you forgot your voice, I nearly went mad." Sighing, he traced his finger down the length of her arm. "In fact, I think I did."

Christine simply watched him, conflicting emotions passing across his eyes. "I should go speak with Monsieur LaFerve." She gave him a quick kiss on the cheek. "I'll be back shortly." Throwing her black cloak over her shoulders, she took one last, fleeting look back at Erik. He sat motionless in the chair, watching the flames that danced in the fireplace.

Without another word, she disappeared out the door.

* * *

The edifice that stood in the center of the town was even more daunting at night when one was alone. Its profile was darkened against the blackening sky, and except for the few couples that walked the paths, leisurely strolling in their wistful lovers mindset, the streets were empty.

Christine looked up at the granite columns, the ambiance of the place astonishingly different from that of the Opera Populaire. A cold, wintry breeze caused her skirt to swell up, becoming a swirl of scarlet around her ankles. She clutched her shawl to her shoulders tightly, mentally cursing herself for coming this late at night. Stepping up the staircase nimbly, she pulled open the large wooden door and stepped inside.

Instead of the lavish golden archways and bright marble flooring, Christine was met with the sight of dark crimson carpeting, deep red wooden walls, and sinister portraits of scenes from a variety of gothic plays. She paused only for a moment, glancing up at the depiction of what appeared to be the Lair of Satan. The flames of Hell crept up the side of the picture, surrounding the bodies of its naked victims in a disquieting portrayal of the Devil's torture chamber. Christine's mouth melted into a grimace, and she turned away.

Monsieur LaFerve's office was a level above the main entranceway. She had little difficulty finding it, even in the mounting darkness of the passages. As she drew near to the office, Christine saw the faint, flickering glow of candlelight glimmering from the space beneath the door. "Monsieur LaFerve?" she called, knocking on the door lightly. It was pushed open beneath the weight of her hand, and she stepped inside hesitantly.

The room was furnished as the rest of the theater was: dark, dismal, and strangely enigmatic. Burgundy drapes lined the pitch-black windows, an unlit fireplace sat, vacant of flames, behind the desk before her. A deep mahogany grandfather clock reigned majestically against the wall; its chimes began ringing the nine o'clock hour, the sound deep and echoing. A candle rested in a deep bronze candelabra on Monsieur LaFerve's counter.

But his chair was empty.

"Monsieur LaFerve?"

A low, resounding thud echoed from behind her, the resonance of heavy glass hitting a wooden floor.

"Monsieur…?"

* * *

Erik had not picked up the violin in well over a decade. For a moment, he simply stared at it, watching the gleam of rich red wood against the candlelight. Lifting the instrument underneath his chin, he brought the bow to the strings. The music that filled the air was bittersweet, haunting, and he closed his eyes, his lips parted. Each note, singing its own story, weaving a tale of heartbreak and sorrow. How his soul had longed for this moment…

The candlelight glimmered in the darkness, his white porcelain mask gleaming from out of the shadows. He sighed in absolute rapture, his breathing arduous and labored. The loose, flowing white shirt that covered his torso had been unbuttoned down to the beginning of his breast, the skin of his chest glistening with sweat. Beads of perspiration shimmered on his forehead, dripping into his eyes, but he did not notice. He was too enthralled in the sweet anticipation…

Slowly, the ambiance of the melody began to change. Faster and faster…the dancing flames of the candle seemed to quicken with the growing aggressiveness of the song. With fierce, violent assertiveness, Erik assaulted the violin with his bow, his arm moving up and down wildly._ Here the sire may serve the dam, here the master takes his meat…_

_Don Juan Triumphant_ had never sounded so flawless to his ears. The lone, unaccompanied violin, playing out the tragedy of the song…it was perfect, it was _right._ It was as if Erik had been reunited with a long-lost friend, the tune caressing his spirit, pure and utter ecstasy coursing through his veins. _You will have to pay the bill- tangled in the winding sheets…_

And then he had come to Aminta. The key signature changed and heightened an octave. Aminta. The pure, innocent girl corrupted by the conniving, manipulative Don Juan, singing of her thoughts of joy and dreams of love. Beautiful, childlike, untainted…a delicate rose surrounded by a field of thorns. Erik swallowed the lump that had formed in his throat and continued on. _You have come here…in pursuit of your deepest urge…_

_"In pursuit of that wish, which till now, has been silent…_

_Silent…"_

Erik murmured the words, his voice rasping and hoarse, his lips scarcely moving as he sang. His mind drifted from the music he played, floating to the far corners of his dark memory…to the moment in which he had realized that he had subconsciously created Aminta in the image of Christine, to the instant of understanding that had cut Erik's breath short.

_"And now I am here with you, no second thoughts…_

_I've decided…_

_Decided…"_

It had been her point of no return. When she stepped away from her childhood and became a woman…became **his**…_ Past all thought of right or wrong… _He had seen a certain glint in her eyes, something he had never before in his life seen. She had chosen; there were no influences in her decision. He had seen it in her eyes. And God, how he had loved it.

His hands ached to touch her, to hold her, to feel her skin beneath his fingertips. When they had reached the top of the catwalk, the notions that had run through his head had shocked him, but excited him at the same time. They were thoughts he had never imagined himself perceiving…thoughts of joy, dreams of love. But this was quite unlike the love that had filled Aminta's mind…oh yes, much different. The feelings consumed him, along with the passionate inferno that surrounded them. He was so close…so very close…

The song that poured from the violin reached its climax, Erik's soul pouring into the music that filled the room._ The bridge is crossed, so stand and watch it burn…we've passed the point of no return…_

It was meant to be over…meant to end with that chilling tone, as the audience watched Don Juan and Aminta cross their bridge and pass their point. But the song had flown past his lips, unexpected and unplanned._ Lead me, save me from my solitude…_ No, you fool, that had been Christine's song of devotion for her lover! It had been_ their song!_ How much torture must a heart endure?

_"Christine, that's all I ask of…"_

Tears flowed from Erik's eyes and dripped onto the violin as it held that note, the music dying away, diminishing into the night.

_"…you…"_


	12. Brutality

**A/N:**_ I changed my pen name, just to let everybody know. I am now…_**Bondaged Vampiresa! **_Mwa-ha-ha-ha-ha! Eh-hem…_200 reviews…it's a tough goal, but I think you guys can do it. Never in my wildest dreams did I imagine to make it even to…I don't know, 75? That would have been lucky. Now it's one away from 150 reviews, twice what I hadn't even hoped to have. I'm in awe of your amazing reviewing skills.

**P.P.S:** I use French again. Sorry. Translation directly after the sentences..

**P.P.S:** This chapter is borderline "R." It's necessary for the plot, though. Please don't throw rotten vegetables at my head! Ducks

* * *

**BRUTALITY**

**

* * *

**

The chair could not be seen when one first entered the room. It would have been blocked from view by the large wooden frame of the door. Christine fell victim to this set-up. She turned around slowly, shadows falling across her face as she faced the blackness that seemed to consume the room.

"Monsieur…?"

It was not Monsieur LaFerve who sat in the throne-like armchair. The candle that sat on the table next to him cast long, sinister shadows across his face, his eyes strangely shiny, bright and intense.

"…Baron?" Her voice cracked slightly, her heart jumping to her throat. Christine knew immediately that she should not be there. The Baron stared at her, his hair hanging limply in his face, an empty bottle of whiskey lying on its side on the floor. His fingers trailed lazily over the glass, and a vague, eerie smile crossed his lips. Christine took an involuntary step back, looking into his bloodshot eyes. "Pardon me, Baron…I- I assumed Monsieur LaFerve would be in here." She put her hand on the knob. "I am sorry for intruding…"

"What was wr-wrong with using your oth'a name, Miss Daaé?" he asked, his eyes on her retreating back.

Christine turned back to him slowly, eyes forming two perfect O's in the darkness. "What did you say?" she murmured.

A grin sneaked its way onto his mouth. "Christine Daaé. Th-the Paris singer. The one who fell in love wit tha Opera Ghost."

Opening the door a crack, her eyes locked on the Baron, Christine felt her heart stop. "I…I don't have any idea as to what you're talking about, sir…" she whispered, the blood to her cheeks. She pressed her hands to her face, her knuckles turning an ashen white.

He lurched forward suddenly, up off the chair, and leaned heavily against the door. It slammed shut with a loud thud. "Don't play games with me, you_ whore!"_ he hissed, his skin darkening to a reddish-purple, his mannerisms heightening from drunken stupor to blind rage. "I have seen every theater troupe fr'm 'ere ta London! And I would stake ma life on tha fact that you're her!" He slapped a wide, callused hand across her face.

Christine, caught off guard, stumbled back a few feet, falling to the floor violently. Then he was on top of her. Before she had time to react, he took a handful of her hair, bringing her mass of brunette curls up to his face and, closing his eyes, inhaled deeply. She raised her fist to him, bringing it down with everything she possessed. He grabbed her wrist just a few inches from his face and twisted it back, his hand at her throat. Christine flailed against his weight he pressed himself to her stomach, pushing her legs against him as a groan of effort flew from her mouth. She managed to pull herself away, and on her hands and knees, began to crawl away from the colossal man behind her. The Baron grasped her waist pulled her back to him. And that was when she felt the cold and metallic pressure of a pistol against her skin through the light silk of her blouse.

He cocked the gun, a hollow click filling the air.

Dead silence rang in the room for a moment, Christine's heavy, wavering gasps the only sound. "You make a sound…" the Baron muttered, his voice surprisingly strong in his drunkenness, "…I pull the trigger." She jerked herself away from him, and he jabbed her sharply in the back with the revolver. His piercing, forceful laughter echoed in her ears. "Don't you bah-lieve me, slut? Do you think me a coward?" Christine did not respond. "After we're through here, I'm sitting back in that chair, taking this…" He lifted the gun from the small of her back and waved it in front of her face. "…and…" The Baron brought the pistol up to his temple slowly, his bloodshot eyes wide and traveling in circles around her face. "So you see, ma dear, I got nothin' to fear."

As if to prove his point, he moved the barrel of the gun off her and pointed it at the ground no less than a few centimeters from her shoulder. There was a crack like a whip, an explosion of sound that echoed through the walls. Christine flinched, certain she had become deaf from the gunshot. The sound died away slowly, an eerie silence once again pealing through the room. She felt his hand slide up her thigh, shaking in his exhilaration, and grab her arm tightly. "I'm gonna die like the gentleman I was born to be," he murmured, his voice hushed in anticipation.

Christine could barely breathe. When the icy barrel of the revolver met soft spot beneath her jaw, she began to tremble uncontrollably, a moan escaping her lips. His scorching air tickled her ear, and she smelled whiskey and poison on his breath. She squirmed against him, trying to pull away in vain, but she received a sharp pain in the back of her neck as his knuckles dug into her. He pushed the gun harder against her neck.

_'Erik…'_

She would not allow herself to cry.

* * *

Madame Giry had never heard him play his violin before. She couldn't have; she could never have forgotten the chilling sound that echoed through the house. A tear slipped down her cheek as she listened to the haunting song, landing softly on her pillow. She lay in her bed, her room across the hall from the area Erik had wordlessly claimed as his music studio, and heard his deep, rich voice fill the air.

_"Say you'll share with me one love, one lifetime…_

_Lead me, save me from my solitude…"_

She remembered her exact thoughts as she watched him above her, a look of horror drawn across her face._ 'For God's sake, Erik, what are you doing? What could you ever hope to accomplish by doing this?'_ Madame Giry had wanted to go up there, to shake some sense into that man, to stop him before he lost everything. But she, like everyone else in the entire theater, had been caught beneath the Phantom of the Opera's magical trance. All eyes were locked on the two figures upon the catwalk, and they were all powerless to stop themselves.

_"Say you want me with you here beside you…"_

A sigh whisked past her lips, the tips of her auburn hair rustling gently against the breeze. Her eyelids felt heavy, and she let them fall… In her approaching slumber, she did not even notice the abrupt end to the music that filled the night…

_"Erik."_

_He was only a shadow of the suave, debonair man he had been before. In the rain, sitting in the alleyway, a blanket drawn over his shoulders, he had appeared even more pathetic. But she had known it was him; she had known without any doubt in her mind…_

_The wind blew past him forcefully, the brown fabric covering him fluttering madly around his frame. He pulled it closer to him and turned away. She felt his shame radiating around him, like an aura. The raindrops fell into her eyes, and she blinked them away. "It's over, Erik. You can go home now." She took a few steps toward him. "They've forgotten."_

_"I have not." His voice was a hushed whisper, but there was still a trace of its lingering intensity. "I will never forget."_

_Madame Giry extended her hand out to him, hesitated, then brought it back to her side. "It's been a month, Erik. You must stop punishing your body for what happened." He did not respond. "You'll die out here."_

_He looked up at her, his face wet and exposed to the world. "Good," he replied hollowly._

_She waited silently, not knowing what to say, then reached into her purse and brought out a small black bag. Handing the package to him, she stood next to him, watching as he opened it._

_Erik pulled the mask from the shadowy depths of the sack. For a moment, he just stared at it, running his fingers over the familiar grooves and crevices of the porcelain. Slowly, he brought it to his face and placed it carefully over his cheek. He met her gaze, his mouth unwavering but his eyes shining in gratefulness. "There's more," she said simply._

_His fingers passed over the small object, his eyes still locked on hers. He pulled his hand back and looked at the piece of metal that sat on his palm._

_A key._

_"Do you remember?"_

_"Yes."_

_"It's locked now. They will never think to look there again." She put her hand on his. "Time to go back."_

When she awoke, she did not remember it as a dream; it was a distant recollection of eight years prior. Madame Giry sat up, her ears greeted with a chilling silence. No more music.

* * *

Cold.

He was cold.

But it was not like Erik's coldness. This was something within the depths…something darker… This man was cold to the core. Erik's had been a bluff to the world, feigning his aloof iciness, hiding a fiery soul. She was aware of it every time he laid his hands on her… How could his coldness be true if she felt as if she were on fire when his fingers met her skin?

This time, however…

Christine flinched at every touch, every caress, every stroke. She turned her head from him, refusing to look at the man above her. She hated him…hated him with every ounce of strength she possessed. His body assaulted hers, and a few times, she screamed out in pain and horror, sickened by the reality.

…and so she escaped.

His hand was pressing against her abdomen…_no, it was Erik. In the vaults…and the warmth melted through her. She felt the heat through his gloves as his hand ran down her waist…his fingers took a hold of hers, and he brought them up to his face. Oh, Erik…_

A dull ache pulsed between her legs…and each thrust amplified it by a hundred. _Erik…it was their first time. In the dark, a single candle flickering across the room. She was no longer on the cold, wooden floor…she was on a bed, a magnificent bed of rose petals…_

"La lutte relève seulement la sensation…" _(Fighting only heightens the sensation.)_

_"My love is not for this…"_

"Que cachez-vous, la prostituée ? Quel est votre secret?"_ (What are you hiding, whore? What is your secret?)_

_"…but for **this**…"_

Thrust…after thrust… Christine bit her lip, watching the memories flee into the distance as she was thrown into the dim veracity. _"No!"_ she shrieked, her eyes flying open, glassy and wide in the blackness. She watched as the corners of his lips twisted into a cruel, taunting smile, and the hatred within her ruptured. Christine pushed him away, out of her…the white knuckles of her fists collided with the hardened muscles of his broad chest, and he fell backwards, his nearly naked frame crashing solidly into the ground.

She looked into his eyes…eyes that burned with a drunken fire. Christine scrambled to her feet and made a dash for the door, only to be caught by the hair, his hands twisting around her russet locks. He spun her around, forcing her to face him as he pushed her against the wall with his body. His fingers closed around her neck, tighter and tighter… A blackness began to invade her sight, the shadows drawing circles around her eyes, her vision darkening…

His face loomed over her, his skin red, his grunts of vehemence and desire echoing in her ears. The crimson of his cheeks darkened…first to scarlet, then to a disquieting purple, deepening to an ashen blue. His eyes bulged, and she smiled at his agony.

The moon floated above her, just out of reach.

* * *

Something was wrong.

Perhaps it was an instinct. Or maybe it was a sign from God. Whatever it was, it frightened him. And Erik was not a man of fear. He had known the feeling few times in his life. His childhood had hardened him of useless emotions…he had been built upon anger and deceit. But somehow, these sensations had crept back into his heart. Jealousy…love…and fear.

The theater was nothing compared to the place of his younger years. He shook himself mentally and climbed the stairs. There was no time for reminiscence. He did not know where he was going, or what he would do when he got there…waltz into the room, take Christine by the hand, and explain calmly to the manager that it was her bedtime? He uttered a low laugh at the true idiocy of the notion, and he continued down the corridor.

A scream burst from somewhere directly above him, the voice all too familiar to Erik's ears.

_Christine._

His feet carried him at a speed he did not know he could reach. The cloak around his neck flapped violently in a burst of black velvet behind him. Christine…Christine…_Christine!_

At the top of the next flight of stairs, he was met with a hallway of doors. Erik opened the first one violently: nothing. The second, the third, the fourth…_ 'Oh God, where are you?'_ a voice in his ear screamed distraughtly.

When he turned the knob of the next one, his desperate hope mounting, he saw nothing but darkness. Then, a rustle of fabric. And a low, rasping moan, followed by a grunt…and deep, guttural chokes. Erik took a step inside and his eyes fell upon two figures crushed against the wall in front of him…he would never forget that sight.

_Christine._

Only she no longer looked anything like Christine; instead, she was a small, crumpled, utterly defeated creature, her hair limp and shimmering with sweat. Her lips were slack and blood red…and her eyes, glassy and unfocused.

Then, Erik's eyes turned to the animal on top of her, gripping her with such aggression and brutality. He was large, strong, bulking…an _animal._ And a hatred like nothing Erik had ever known boiled inside him…worse than the gypsy who had beat him every day of his childhood, worse than the crowd that spit on him and laughed at his face in scorn, worse than the mother who screamed at the sight of him and turned her eyes away in revulsion, worse than the Vicomte de Chagny who stole his one and only love from him.

Much worse.

In one, fluid movement, he ripped the cord from the drapes away and tied it…his Punjab lasso. How long had it been? His lips curled back into a snarl, eyes flashing, and he threw it around the man's neck, pulling viciously. Perspiration glistened on his upper lip as he yanked the man backwards, watching as his eyes protruded from his skull, his skin darkening to a deep plum color. The man's hands flew behind him, waving wildly, and his fingers connected with the side of Erik's cheek. The porcelain mask flew from his face, but in his furious rage, Erik did not notice. With a final wrench, Erik heard the sweet sound of the man's neck snapping in half, and his body collapsed to the floor in a heap.

Erik turned to Christine, his breathing heavy and labored. He saw her eyelids fall, drawn out and dramatic, before he reached down and pulled her into his arms. His fingers traced the long, darkened bruises around her neck, feeling the blood pulse beneath his skin. "Oh, Christine…" he murmured, tears streaming from his eyes. He hugged her to himself, kneeling on the ground, clutching her desperately. Erik laid his head against her breasts, feeling the steady rise and fall of her chest against his temple. Wracking sobs echoed in his throat, his breath hot and heavy. He stood slowly, holding her body against himself.

He cast one final glance back at the dead man behind him, the lingering fury shining in his eyes. He felt no regret.

The tears ran silently down his cheek as he carried her home.

* * *

**A/N:**_No! It's still not done!_


	13. Torment

**A/N:** _This section's a little short…not too much action, just thought and descriptive writing and such. The song in this first section is to the melody of "Wandering Child/Angel of Music." The lyrics were REALLY hard to come up with for this one…Here, I'll give you a visual:_

_I was sitting at my computer in my pajamas (big t-shirt, sweat pants…no, I **don't **sleep in the nude…) at two o'clock in the morning, trying to come up with lyrics that an angsty guy sings to the woman he loves…who has just been raped. The words don't exactly write themselves for this one. I went through, I dunno, **thirty** (maybe forty? Fifty?) differentrevisions before I came up with these (which still don't exactly work with the tune), so y'all just better appreciate them…a **lot**… :Glares threateningly at readers and shakes fist at computer monitor: Just kidding…you know I love each and every one of you._

**P.S: **_And thank you goes out to my reviewers (Tiger and Raven are sticking in my mind…for some particular reason…:cough cough: haha) for helping me in my strive for 200. Only five more to go:Does a happy dance:_

_

* * *

_

**TORMENT**

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* * *

**

_"Beautiful angel, once untainted…_

_Now robbed of all pure virtue…"_

The singing echoed from somewhere above her…but was it truly singing? Perhaps it was simply a melodious voice, musical speech that filled the air around her head. The words escaped her, as if their meaning lay hidden away in her mind, and she simply listened to the sound.

_"Plagued by these men of cruel intention,_

_Find in me your refuge…"_

She settled on the decision that this was a dream. Yes, that was it: a beautifully divine dream that dwelled somewhere between the state of delicious, unrealized sleep and the perception of her slumber. Shadows drifted aimlessly across her eyelids, and she felt her lips part, allowing for a new stream of breath to fill her lungs. She let her mind float on blissful ignorance, her memories murky and forgotten, and the song echoed in her ears.

_"What evil has left itself in you?_

_What scars still have stories to tell?_

_Why is it your body must suffer-_

_When mine…should burn…in Hell…?"_

The words were now intermingled with Erik's bitter tears, the soft, moist beads landing gently on her shoulder…and suddenly, she remembered everything. It all came back, flooding her senses, and her frame became rigid and still as her mind filled with images of…

Oh _God…_

Christine moaned in her sleep, the peaceful expression that had lined her face swiftly transforming into one of pain, grief, and utter horror. "No…no!" The shriek burst from her mouth with such energy that her voice cracked beneath the force of the sound.

_"Erik!"_

_

* * *

_

The heavens seemed to be mourning along with him; the clouds cast long, black shadows across the room, and the deep scarlet hue of the emerging sun turned her flawless white skin into a deep, enchanting rose color. In essence, the sky appeared to have been painted by an artist who possessed only two colors: black and red. Loss and vehemence, despair and bloodlust. Erik looked out the window, his eyes fierce and intense.

But the tears still ran.

He turned back to the figure that lay motionless in the white satin bed before him, his eyes instantly softening, the droplets that streamed from his eyes growing in size. _"Oh, Christine…"_ This pain was so foreign, so strange and unfamiliar to him…it was pain that was not his own, pain more intense than anything he had physically underwent before.

Erik reached out his hand, then he hesitated, uncertain…wondering if he should actually touch her. What if she should awaken from this tranquil slumber that had so graciously been bestowed upon her? But as he stared at her, watching as her lips parted ever-so-slightly, he found his arm had a mind of its own. Erik intertwined his fingers with hers, his other hand resting gently on the crest of her brow, stroking the side of her face tenderly. He did not even realize he was singing until she gave a slight smile in her sleep.

_"Find in me your refuge…"_

Your refuge…your refuge… Erik's eyes grew dark at his own words, the implication of the phrase taunting him. Had she not been under his refuge when this happened to her? Had she not been in his protection? He grimaced at the thought of the duty he had abandoned…

It had been _Erik_ who allowed her to go into town (at night, no less!), as he sat in the comfort of his own room, thinking of her, dreaming of her, imagining himself within her… He flinched subconsciously at the notion that as he had been picturing all this in his mind, the very same had been taking place less than five miles away…with Christine powerless to stop it…

When all was said and done, it had been _Erik's_ fault all along.

_"Why is it your body must suffer-_

_When mine…should burn…in Hell…?"_

The words did not come…through the wrenching sobs that filled the room, he watched as Christine stirred. "No…no…" she murmured, her voice heightening to a shout. When she cried out his name, he was there, lifting her into his arms, pulling her to him.

Erik stared at her face, eyes wide, as her brow drawn together in a knot on her forehead, her teeth pressing into her lower lip with such fierceness that a small trickle of blood gathered at the indentations and silently flowed down the crevices of her skin. He put his ungloved finger beneath her chin and caught the thin crimson river before it seeped into her white gown. She squeezed her eyes shut, trying desperately, but in the end, vainly, to block out the memories of whatever unimaginable horrors she had experienced.

Erik turned his tear-streaked eyes to the ceiling above him, his anguished gaze shooting daggers at the heavens. _"What have I done to have You inflict such pain on **her!**"_ he bellowed into the emptiness. Only the silence of nothingness answered, a ringing sound, mocking him. "If You are so intent on it, destroy me, here and now, in all your glory!" His voice became a choked whisper in the darkness. "But why make_ her_ pay for the sins of my past?" He felt his legs buckle beneath him, and he fell to his knees, still clutching Christine to his chest. _"Must you break the one thing in this Godforsaken world that I love?"_ he hissed into the blackness, eyes blinded by his own tears.

As he knelt, shaking, on the floor, Erik felt the warm touch of flesh to his left cheek. Bringing his gaze back down to the ground, he saw himself in the tiny pools of ebony enclosed in Christine's chocolate-colored irises. Her mouth seemed so small and insignificant placed beneath the deep, wide oceans of her eyes…eyes that brimmed with tears at the sight of her shattered beloved. "Erik…" she murmured. She ran her fingers over his cheek.

He took her face in his hands and pressed his mouth to hers, over and over, telling himself to stop but incapable of doing so. Christine did not respond to his kisses, instead allowing him to cover her with his lips and tears, feeling his need for her radiate from his skin. "I will never leave you again…" he whispered between each kiss. "Never…oh God, Christine, what have I done to you?"

Erik stopped, his face resting upon her cheek, his gasps labored and irregular against her ear. His words echoed in her mind, and she stared at him. He blamed _himself…?_ "Erik…look at me," she said, watching as he closed his eyes and turned away. "Erik…"

"I'm responsible for all of this, Christine…" He savored her name on his lips, the word drawn out on his breath. "I didn't stop you…I didn't even _try…_" Erik met her gaze, his mouth quivering.

"No." Her voice was strong, harsh…he hardly recognized it. He stared at her, mouth agape. She took his hand with both of hers, grasping it to the base of her throat. "_He_ is." Christine saw the quick anger return to his eyes at her words before turning away from him. "...or he _was._"

Slowly, Erik pressed his long, slender hand to her paling face, his eyes filled with all the sadness in the world (**A/N:** Sorry, I like that line!). "Oh, Christine…what did he do to you…?"

He had not expected an answer…he had not _wanted_ an answer. But as he watched her eyes glaze over, her small frame tremble, he suddenly knew he was going to get one anyway.

* * *

"It was so sudden…"

Erik took her hand and squeezed it…harder than he intended. Christine glanced up at him, and he loosened his hold. "You don't need to answer. Maybe you should get some more rest," he murmured. He lifted her into the bed and pulled the blankets over her thin shoulders, his eyes making tiny circles around her face. For a few minutes he knelt there, running his thumb over her white knuckles, before getting up and heading for the door.

"I hadn't even known he was there, Erik…"

He turned back to her, mouth trembling. "Christine…" he said, his voice almost inaudible.

She cut him off, her voice sharp and unusually low. "You asked what he did, Erik…" Christine reached for his hand, her fingers grazing over his arm. "I'm prepared to answer."

_"But I'm **not** prepared to hear it!"_ he shouted, his hands balled into fists at his sides. Christine watched him apprehensively, the flickering of the candles on the walls throwing strange shadows across her face. The stillness that filled the room was unnerving. Slowly, he made his way back over to her. "I don't think I'm…" he began, his eyes locked on hers. A sigh flew past his lips, and he started again. "I'm not strong enough."

There was a light tap on the door, and after a few moments of hesitant silence between Erik and Christine, Madame Giry stepped in the room. Erik stood from his place beside Christine's bed, turning to face the window. Madame Giry watched them, her eyes fierce and analytic beneath the wrinkles of her weathered skin, before walking- but it wasn't really _walking,_ for her steps were so smooth and graceful it was as if she floated across the room- and settling down beside Christine. "My child…" the woman murmured.

Erik listened to her speak, his fingers pressed against the glass. Madame Giry said just the right words, talk of strong spirit and undying resolute to be held against evil…innocence lost but not completely destroyed. He ran his fingers through his hair, eyes closed, his lips mouthing curses aimed at his own inability to console his dear Christine.

"Erik rescued me, you know," Christine whispered to Madame Giry. He turned his face slightly, his back still to her, as the rising sun emitted long, blood red shafts of light through the glass. "I was going to die, but he saved me. I saw him, I saw his face…" she said softly, her eyes fixed on Erik as she spoke. "He truly is an Angel…a Guardian Angel of Music…" He squeezed his eyes shut, his face trying unsuccessfully to hinder the inevitable tears that had already breached his eyelashes. Erik covered his face with one of his hands.

He felt warm skin touch his wrist, and he peered through the cracks in his fingers. Madame Giry stood before him, a comforting smile lining her lips. Slowly, he let his hand fall limply to his side, and he watched as Madame Giry's expression changed from consolation to one of hesitant confusion. "Erik…" She reached out and touched his right cheek lightly. "Where is your mask?"

Erik's hand flew to his face, tracing the uneven crevices of his deformity. An image sprang into his mind…a vision of a hand colliding with the side of his head…and he remembered. "It fell off…" he whispered, his voice filled with dawning horror. "It fell off when I…" His voice trailed away, and he stared at Madame Giry. "It's right next to the body…"

They were interrupted by a loud, fervent pounding at the front door.


	14. Sacrifice

**A/N:** If you have not taken the time to read this story carefully before, I strongly advise you to do it now. There are some really important things going down here. And there are some references to Kay in this one (in fact, I took a few quotes word for word); but if you haven't read her superbly amazing novel, it won't effect your capabilities to understand what's going on.

**P.S:** Once again, I'd like to thank my loyal readers, especially **AntiqueSong**…your review was inspiring! It's wonderful to know my Erik was so effective…and reaching 300 reviews? I have no words…well, actually I have a lot. :Points to chapter beneath this sentence:

**P.P.S:** Well, actually beneath this sentence…I just thought I'd let y'all know that I made this chapter end with what I believe is my cruelest cliffhanger yet…just so you're prepared and everything.

**SACRIFICE**

_François had first seen the man less than a month before. It had been a cloudy, dismal day, that he remembered distinctly. The weather had been unusually cold for that time of year, with overcast skies and strong, unruly winds that whipped the long black cape draped upon the man's broad, lean shoulders._

_At first, François had been unaware of another presence in his midst. The man had appeared from out of the fog with such disquieting abruptness that for a moment, François thought he was a ghost, an apparition. The exclusively black apparel had not diminished this first impression…nor had the pale white mask that covered half of the man's face…_

_With a dramatically unhurried pace, the man approached him, his eyes, hidden within the shadows, burning holes into François's body. François took an involuntary step backwards, grasping the dented bronze rail of the buggy behind him with a large, hair-covered hand._

_"You provide transportation for those without a means of travel, do you not?" the man inquired, his voice low and hauntingly melodious. François stared at him, brow furrowed._

_"…For a fee, yes," he said after a hesitant pause. Without another word, the man swept his cloak around him in a fluttering flurry of black velvet and disappeared around the side of the carriage. The buggy rocked back and forth slightly as he sat down inside. François blinked, then quickly climbed the mount leading to the front seat and took his place atop the carriage. "Where are you going, Monsieur?" he asked through the small window behind him._

_"The countryside" was the curt response. François snapped the reigns and the horse took off. The man told him the directions, usually in two words or less, simply signaling which direction to take. "Left…straight ahead…left again…" The enclosed perimeters of the city began to expand, the houses growing smaller and father apart as they continued up the side of the hill. The wind began to intensify, and François pulled his brown scarf closer to his uncovered neck. He took a quick glance behind him, only to find the stranger sitting, silent and unmoving, staring out the window with those eerie, focused eyes._

_"Where are you headed, Monsieur?" François questioned, his eyes locked on the road in front of him. The man said nothing, and after a moment, François assumed he would get no reply. 'He must have many thoughts floating around in his head…many secrets…' he pondered._

_"Home."_

_François turned his head slightly. "Pardon?"_

_The man met his eyes directly, and François felt a chill run up his spine. "Home." He broke the stare, turning his gaze to the window once again . "I'm going home."_

_They did not speak until they reached their destination._

_Just as François began to wonder if this man had any idea as to where he was headed, he was met with the sight of an old Victorian mansion lining the horizon. It sat dauntingly upon the hill, overlooking the city, a long, stone stairwell leading up to the front door._

_"We are here," the man said._

_François stopped the buggy, pulling off to the side of the road next to the gate. The stranger stepped out quickly, silently, and closed the door of the carriage. He turned to François and handed him a few coins. François looked into his palm and was shocked to find at least double…no, **triple** the cost he was due. Glancing at the man, François quickly shoved the money into his pocket and was about to leave when he felt the strong grip of fingers on his arm. François looked up at the man, eyes wide. Mutely, the man pressed two more coins into his hand._

_"For your silence," he murmured._

_He took out a small sack and laid it gently in François's grasp. "…And for your return, every day, at five o'clock. You will take me to the Opera House, and you will mention it to no one." François nodded wordlessly, staring at the man in amazement. "Good."_

_Then he was gone._

_On his return to town, François pulled the buggy down a small, damp alleyway. Jumping down off the carriage, he stepped through a small door off to the side of the street. "I hadn't expected to see you back so early, François," a voice rasped from the corner. A man stepped out of the shadows, his shaggy brown hair, plump gut, and bump of a nose mirroring François's own appearance. After a moment of hesitant stillness, the man spread his arms out in front of him. "What are you doing back here already?" he growled accusingly._

_François smirked lightly. "You worry too much, brother." He pulled out the bag from the pocket of his long, tatty trench coat and threw it onto the table. The seal broke open, and hundreds of coins were thrown, scattered, across the hard wooden surface._

_"François…this will pay for **everything**…all our debts, all our payoff's, gone…" Pierre whispered, looking up at his brother from beneath his thick, caterpillar-like eyebrows, the glimmer of the gold reflected in his beetle black eyes. "Where did you...?"_

_Taking a coin from off the table and spinning it in and out of his fingers, François's grin deepened. "It's quite an interesting story, Pierre..."_

_

* * *

_

He had never been close enough to see the fine engravings on the door. In fact, he had never even touched the gate or ascended those treacherous-looking stairs, either. François turned to the group of fourteen men behind him. Each had an equally menacing expression on their faces, and in each pair of hands, a gun. Looking between the faces in the crowd, François turned to Pierre. As the older brother, he still felt a burst of responsibility over him, even in their adult age. "Do you remember what I told you?" François muttered to them hurriedly. "The police want him _dead or alive._ Apparently, this man is dangerous. Otherwise they would not be offering such a high reward on head."

"And you're sure this is the man?" piped up one of the men towards the back of the group.

François turned to him sharply. "Jacques, how many men do you think run around Lyons wearing 'a white mask that covers his right cheek?' It was the exact description. I even saw the mask in the captain of the guard's bloody hand!" he hissed. "I told you, I drove this man to and from the city for almost a month. Trust me…" he murmured, his voice dropping slightly, eyes narrowed. "This is him." He looked around at his men slowly, his gaze falling upon his younger sibling. "Are you ready?" he whispered.

Pierre glanced up at the door, a glistening bullet of sweat making its way down his brow, before nodding to his brother, a look of resolute determination on his face. François clapped him on the back with one wide, callused hand, then turned and faced the cold, gray wood of the house. He took a deep breath and hammered at the door with his fist.

* * *

For a moment, no one said a word. They stared at each other wordlessly until Madame Giry broke the silence.

"I'll get it."

She strode towards the door, her small wrinkled hand outstretched, fingers grazing the cold metal of the knob, when Erik took hold of her arm. "They're here for me," he whispered. _"I'll get it."_ He looked over at Christine, who was sitting up in bed, mouth agape, eyes wide. "Take her, get her out of here. Get my pistol; it's on the fireplace mantel in my study," he murmured under his breath. "Use the backdoor, go around front, and take their carriage while they're…preoccupied."

_"No!"_ Christine cried, sliding off the bed gracelessly. Erik hurried over to her and caught her under the arms. She whirled around, grasping him by the forearms, and pulled his face to hers. Their lips met, hard and frantic, before Erik broke away. Christine held his collar in her tiny fists, eyes wild and glassy. "Don't you _dare_ do this to me again," she hissed to him. She turned to Madame Giry, desperately seeking an ally in her anxiety. "We still have time! We…we could _all_ sneak out back, they'll think no one's home…"

The deafening crash of a door being broken echoed through the house. Erik's eyes were locked on her face, his hand clutching hers. Madame Giry took Christine by the arms, her hands closing around Christine's wrists. "Christine…" she murmured, looking directly into her eyes. _"There is no time."_ They heard the heavy footsteps of at least a dozen men traipsing through the halls downstairs, commanding shouts causing the walls to rattle. Erik continued to stare at Christine, his expression unreadable. "Erik…" Madame Giry muttered. "They're coming closer…" The violent thuds grew louder, as did the voices beneath them.

And then, Erik's paralysis broke. He strode towards Christine, a burning quickness in his step, and took her in his arms. Leaning down, he kissed her as he had never kissed her before. Something passed between them, something indescribable and deep. Their eyes both closed at the profound magnitude, and Erik trailed his lips to her ear.

"Thank you, Christine…" he breathed, his voice so hushed she could barely hear it. She felt a single tear fall soak through her gown and touch her shoulder. "You let my song take flight."

In a swirl of his cape, he disappeared out the door.

* * *

As far back as he could remember, the dark had always been one of the only entities of comfort for him. There had not been a time when he could recall fearing the shadows that danced eerily across the walls or encompassed him in their dark splendor. But as he crept silently along the corridor, his eyes flashing with some unseen, internal light, Erik was hit with a memory that he had forgotten…or chosen to keep concealed within the corners of his mind.

_"Mama…"_

He shuddered at the sound of the thin, bittersweet sound of the child's voice. It took him a few moments to realize it was his own, an echo of a reminiscence that had long since faded… Erik listened to himself as a child of no more than…how old had he been when he was met with that sickening realization? Four? Five? Yes, five…it had been his birthday. It had been before that heavy, inescapable feeling of difference had settled down within him. The mask had always been there, it had always covered his face.

And for the first time on that day, he had asked _why_… He had defied tradition and removed it.

_"You want to know why? Then you shall know…by God, you shall know! Look at yourself!"_

This voice he remembered quite distinctly…it brought up so many twisted, raw sentiments within him, a paradox of emotion boiling in his thoughts. Pain…terror…disgrace…complete and absolute hatred…and the strangest of them all, love.

Mother…

_"Look at yourself in the mirror and see why you must wear a mask. **Look!**"_

At his young age, he had not understood. He had not grasped the reality that was, quite literally, staring him in the face. This _mirror,_ this reflective piece of glass…to young Erik, it had been hiding a monster in its depths. A horrid, deformed, _hideous_ beast who wanted nothing more than to gobble him up, devour him, send him to the pits of whatever hell lurked within it. And he was afraid.

Desperately afraid.

…But he had not understood.

Perhaps it was a fleeting, unusually merciful gift of ignorance that had been so ephemerally bestowed upon him. For in those moments of innocence, Erik had feared something that did not exist… Soon later, however, the irrational fear would evaporate, being replaced by something dark and ugly…a self-loathing from which he would never truly escape.

And in the darkness, young Erik had been sure the face would come for him…in the darkness…

Erik slid his hand down the cool wood of the banister, feeling its smooth polished perfection beneath his fingertips. He was gripped with an unfounded hatred for that sublime flawlessness… just before he was gripped by rough hands, clutching him by the arms.

"François!" a low voice shouted gruffly, the tone wavering with excitement. "He's here, François!"

He felt himself being dragged down the remaining stairs below him, but Erik did not resist…perhaps they would leave after they got what they came for and not search the rest of the house…

Erik's lack of a struggle sent suspicious murmurs through the crowd of men forming at the base of the staircase. His face was covered in the shadows he loved so dearly, and a sigh flew past his lips in gratitude that these…_thieves_ had not seen his right cheek.

Thank God for small miracles.

"Dead or alive, right, François?" muttered a different voice from behind him.

Erik looked up to see a large bulking mass of a man approaching him…he remembered him vaguely as the carriage driver who drove him to the Opera House everyday… Erik closed his eyes in frustration. It had been a slip-up, hiring the same buggy for a routine. How could he have suspected no one would become suspicious of a man in a porcelain mask?…a mask that had been left at the scene of what no doubt had been labeled murder by now…

"The infamous Phantom de la Opera, I presume?" the man said, leering, his smirk maddeningly cruel. Erik turned his face slightly to the right, the darkness casting a veil farther onto his cheek. He felt the coarse touch of fingers to his chin, and his face was lifted upward into the dim light of morning…

A horrified stillness overtook the horde of men. After a moment of merciless, unwavering stares, François broke the silence. "Shoot him. Now," he murmured. A chill shot up Erik's spine as the tip of a pistol was placed at the base of his throat. He looked into the eyes of the man holding the gun, a man who looked surprisingly similar to the carriage driver… There was a nervous glassiness to his eyes, amplified to the power of ten when Erik met his gaze. The pressure of the barrel against his skin increased slightly.

The gunshot pealed through the room, and somewhere in the house, a clock chimed the six o'clock hour.


	15. Exodus

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**EXODUS**

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* * *

**

She had watched their taunts from the banister above…watched them as a dark, unfamiliar abhorrence boiled and churned within her. Her knees were folded beneath her, the wooden railing clutched against her trembling body as she steadied herself. The revolver in her hand shook slightly, the sensation of power over life foreign to her fingertips…

There had been no words in the moments after Erik left them. Utter and complete silence, words unable to express the depth. Madame Giry took her arm hesitantly, but Christine yanked herself free violently. The old woman did not recoil beneath the cold and relentless burning of Christine's gaze; instead, she spoke, her voice a whisper of controlled emotion.

"Do not let his sacrifice be wasted in vain, child." She met her eyes, her own image reflected in the large, glassy pools. "He gave himself to them in order to save us…in order to save _you._" Christine said nothing, her lower lip quivering. "You cannot possibly understand what you have done for him, my dear. You gave him light, you gave him purpose…you gave him _love._" Madame Giry put a wrinkled, cold hand to Christine's cheek. "It is time for him to repay you."

Christine placed her own hand over Madame Giry's and squeezed it… hard. Madame Giry winced and looked at Christine, eyes wide in shock. "Repay me for what, Madame?" she whispered urgently. "Repay me for abandoning him, for choosing safety over fate? For being so quick to judge and deciding to flee from reality at the first sign of imperfection?" The old woman stared at her, mouth agape. "No, Madame…I will not be led astray again."

She left the room, leaving Madame Giry standing alone.

Erik's study was three doors to the left of her room, at the end of the hallway. The rooms were lined up against the right hand side of the corridor; along the left was the banister that wound around the entire top level, allowing whoever was walking through the second floor to peer down into the foyer…and anyone who stood downstairs to see up into the halls above. Christine passed slowly through the moving shadows, her body pressed firmly to the wall, as she crept towards the last door. Her eyes jumped nervously from the hallway behind her to the men standing beneath her, her heart pounding so loudly that she was sure they would hear. As her fingers passed over the brass knob of Erik's study, she felt the hairs on the back of her neck rise, and she swung around, sure that someone was following her…

Madame Giry watched her apprehensively, and a sigh escaped Christine's lips. "You could still escape, Madame. I would hold no ill feelings," she whispered. The old woman said nothing, her eyes soft and sad in the darkness. Slowly, she shook her head, her gaze cast downwards.

Christine nodded before pulling the door open. The hinges made a low creaking noise as she slunk inside, wearily glancing behind her. Madame Giry looked after her, then she turned her eyes to the shadowy forms below. She could not make out who it was in the foyer, but the steady whispers met her ears, low and urgent. A soft thud echoed from behind the door, and Christine emerged, quickly and noiselessly, a small pistol clutched in her hand.

"Are you sure you can do this, child?" Madame Giry murmured.

"Yes." Christine met her eyes, unflinching. "Yes, _this_ I can do."

They fell silent, and soon they became aware of the mirroring stillness below them. Christine slid back against the wall, her hand grasping the wooden rail next to her. She peered into the darkness, watching the dim figures group around one man…Erik. They just…stood there, staring. Then, clear and distinct, she heard one voice pierce the blackness.

"Shoot him. Now."

Without even so much as a glance back at Madame Giry, Christine held the gun out in front of her. It shook violently in her sweating fingers, one eye squeezed shut, as she aimed at the figure beside Erik, the one who held a glinting metal object in his hand…

The force of the kickback surprised her, and she jumped back, her back hitting the wall behind her. The hammering of her heart beat against her chest, the blood pounding in her ears. She became aware of the static silence, broken only by her heavy, gasping breaths.

* * *

It took them a few moments to realize that whoever had shot at them had missed. A gray puff of gunshot smoke rose from a small black hole in the floor near Pierre's feet. François's gaze turned slowly to Erik, whose eyes had narrowed in order to hide the conflicting emotions that passed across his face._ 'Oh God, Christine, what are you doing…?'_

"Who else is up there, Monsieur _Phantom_?" François spat, glaring at Erik, who said nothing. "Who are you hiding?" He received no response, just a dangerously defiant stare. "How the hell did you all miss them?" François shouted at his men, his eyes still locked on Erik.

"We assumed he was alone here, sir," said a voice from the back of the group. "I mean, who would stay with…?"

Erik remained silent, the barrel of the gun still pressed against his skin. "You two stay with him," François called, pointing to the two men on his right. "We're going to find our uninvited guests." At this, Erik's pulse quickened, a sweat breaking out on his brow.

"Wait!" he called, fighting against Pierre's unyielding clutch. The pistol was shoved viciously into the soft spot beneath his jawbone. "You have me, and you'll get your damn reward…" he gasped through tightened, constrained breaths. "You don't need them."

François raised his eyebrows, the corner of his mouth curving upward. "Is it possible our hardened murderer has found_ love?_ Is this true, Monsieur?" he asked mockingly. Erik's eyes narrowed. "No, of course not…you're probably holding a girl hostage up there… If you would pardon my bluntness, Monsieur, it must be difficult for a man with your_ unique face_ to find a woman willing to give herself to a monster. How many whores have refused your money, Monsieur? How many have turned you away in fear?"

_'Please, Christine, **please** be using this stolen time to get away…'_ begged Erik silently.

François gave a deep, barking laugh. "Too many to count, Monsieur? Do you keep this girl chained up as an animal? Of course you do…there would be no other way to keep a woman, least of all by her own free will. Does bondage serve your needs, Monsieur? Does she satisfy you?"

Erik did not defend himself…he was biding his time… François appeared angered by his lack of reaction.

With a wave of his hand, he led the men up the grand staircase. Their guns were out and ready, alert and watchful…

* * *

They waited behind the closed door, breathing bated, as they listened to the steady sound of footsteps outside in the hall. "Madame Giry, this isn't right…" Christine whispered. "What if they give up and go back to Erik? Madame, they were about to kill him…" she moaned, pressing her hand to her mouth. "I couldn't…if he should die, I couldn't…"

Madame Giry was about to speak, but she was interrupted by a violent pounding at the door. The two women backed away slowly, Christine clutching the old woman's arm. Quickly, Madame Giry took the revolver from Christine's trembling hand and aimed it at the door.

With a crash, the door broke down, a group of men standing in the entryway. Those in front stopped, shocked by the sight of an old woman pointing a pistol at them. "Give me the gun, old girl," murmured one man as he stepped forward, lips pulled back into a leering grin, his yellow teeth glinting in the candlelight. "You don't even know how to…"

He didn't finish his sentence. Madame Giry pulled the trigger, and an instant later, a small red hole appeared in his chest. The blood spread quickly across his white chemise, dying it scarlet. For a moment the men just stared at her in astonishment. François pushed his way into the room, his eyes falling upon the body that lay in the center of the floor. He looked up at Madame Giry, who was still trembling, and met her eyes.

Without a word, he took his own gun from its holster. "He was one of my best men…a good friend. He had a family…a little girl," he whispered, his voice filled with an unstable rage, still staring directly into her wide eyes. Bringing the revolver up to Madame Giry's forehead, he whispered, almost as reassurance to himself, "I feel no remorse."

Then he shot her, point-blank range.

Christine was still screaming as they dragged her from the room, the tears spilling from her eyes and wetting her cheeks. She called out her name, over and over, reaching her arms back towards the doorway. "You_ bastards!" _she shrieked. "You _bastards,_ you unfeeling _bastards_…she was an old woman…!"

When he wasn't looking, the other men cast questioning looks of disbelief at François. Never before had he shown such heartlessness, such ruthlessness…what was happening to him? They were frightened even to whisper amongst themselves…who knew which of them he would turn on next…? François walked down the hall in the front of the group, unresponsive to their accusing stares. He started down the stairs, but stopped halfway.

The foyer was darker than it had been; the few candles that lined the walls had been blown out. "Pierre?" François called hesitantly. He grasped the railing and continued down, cautious and vigilant. His feet met the hardwood floor, and he took a few guarded steps forward…before running into something on the ground. Something large and soft… "Someone get me a light down here," he called anxiously over his shoulder.

One of the men struck a match and came down the stairway behind him. As he drew nearer, the retreating shadows revealed a body…a body that was not the one he intended to recover. "Henri?" François whispered, nudging him on the arm with his foot. Henri did not respond. François did not notice the deep purple bruises that lined Henri's throat…

"Light those candles over there, quickly," he ordered the man with the match. Without question, he walked swiftly towards the candlesticks that stood in the corners of the room. His feet tripped over something that lay in the hall, and after stumbling a bit, he began to run towards the wall. Lighting the wicks as quickly as he could, the man turned back to see what it was he had fallen over.

It was the body of the other man sent to watch their captive.

Erik stood by the front door, his eyes burning as brightly as the flames that threw shadows against the wall. Pierre stood next to him, quivering, a noose tied securely around his neck. "My dear sir…" Erik called, his voice dripping with an icy mockery of courtesy. "If you would be so kind as to return my _imprisoned whore_ to me, I would like to be getting on my way." François stared at him in horror, his mouth opening and closing like a fish's out of water. "Please, Monsieur, do not gape at me like that …it is quite unbecoming of you." François's lips snapped shut, but he continued to stare. "Let's not dawdle, Monsieur…I believe your brother is becoming uncomfortable. That often happens when one's air supply is cut off." Erik's fingers danced across the rope around the young man's throat, his voice now shaking in an unsuccessful attempt to control his fury.

François turned to the men who held Christine and jerked his head towards the door. They released her, and she raced across the hall, clutching Erik's forearm desperately with her hands. Erik's eyes closed for an instant in momentary disbelief and utter gratitude before turning his gaze back to François. Slowly he backed up, pulling Christine with him, as she opened the door. They stepped out together, Erik's hands still holding the noose. "Get into their carriage," he whispered to Christine. She did so, without question, and Erik lingered there in the doorway, watching. He met François's eyes, and a small smile slipped onto his lips. "For Madame," he mouthed to him, his grin widening.

He yanked back on the rope, an echoing snap resonating through the foyer.

By the time François got to the door, the carriage had disappeared into the glistening fog of early morning.

* * *

**A/N:**_ I put this at the end as to not interrupt the tension between those two chapters. Anyways…I hope you all don't hate me right now. This wasn't one of my favorite chapters…difficult to write, not enough E/C. But Madame Giry's death…I'm not sure how I feel about that. Was it too violent? For once, I feel a bit unsure of how that whole situation went. Usually I like the way the things in my story work out, but this…I don't know. I want your feedback on it, now more than ever…normally I don't alter my story according to how my readers feel (Sorry guys, but I write for me!). However, this one is tough. Should I rework this? Let me know!_

**P.S:** _Sorry this chapter took so long. I've been kind of sick, and I've had to catch up on schoolwork. (Damn you, sophomore year:Shakes fist at heavens: ) I promise the next chapter won't take so long…I was dreading having to write **Exodus**, but **this**…this should be fun. Lots of E/C-ness…well, it's going to be my last one, so I have to fit lots of E/C goodness in there!_

**P.P.S:** _Brownie points to those who remembered the pistol…hope I didn't make that too predictable. I had enough death-threats in my reviews about Erik's "death" that I was reassured it wasn't **too** too obvious…_


	16. Devotion

**A/N:** _My heartfelt appreciation goes out to all who gave me constructive criticism; I am always grateful to those who take the time to correct something in the plot that doesn't make sense (By the way, Padme Nijiri, Erik brought Christine home at night, she slept until dawn, but the day was unusually dark due to fog, clouds, impending rain, etc. I didn't know candles were only used at dusk… Couldn't they be used during a cloudy day?) Anyways, I really do appreciate the feedback on that last chapter…as I said before, it was a tough one. This one was a lot easier to write (and a little bit more fun…hehe…) It's also my longest. Yay!_

**P.S: **_Special thanks to Rachel, my 300th reviewer. I just thought I'd throw that in there for the heck of it… So yes, Rachel, you were número trescientos! Congratulations! Have a cookie!_

**P.P.S:** _I use some more Kay references in my final chapter…yes, this is it, everybody! Anyways, I address the fact that it was Erik who designed the Opera House in the Kay novel, but if you haven't read **Phantom,** just take note that Erik was the architect behind the plans for the Opera Populaire._

**P.P.S.S:** _The lyrics in here are from the Phantom of the Opera theme and Gorecki (by Lamb), respectively._

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**DEVOTION**

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She fell asleep soon after, her arms wrapped tightly around him, refusing to let go even in her slumber. It was a restless sleep, filled with blood red images of death and horror… Erik touched his hand to her cheek, and her body relaxed. He himself was not tired, but as he watched her, he was filled with a sort of…natural serenity. He stared at her lovely face, and he forgot about the shadows that filled his memory…Madame Giry's murder, Christine's rape… No, he thought of only Christine, as she lay against him, her mind void of her own inner demons.

For a few moments, he felt- dare he even think it?- _at peace._

Christine…his lips moved along with the name, tasting so utterly right against his tongue. His gloved hand moved across her long, pale neck, and he watched her chest move up and down steadily, a musical rhythm. The mountains of chestnut curls spilled across his shoulder, and he breathed in deeply…

He scolded himself harshly, turning his face away. How thoughtless was he? Had she not been through enough torment? In his mind he pictured her face as he walked into the manager's room, her body limp and torn from itself. Her eyes, half closed, as if she was dreaming, in a daze… it had all happened the night before. _My God,_ what have you been through, child?

Christine stirred, her hand closing over the top of his knee. Erik fought the stirring he felt within himself, fought it with his own self-disgust. She had witnessed murder, she had been raped, she was so much younger than himself… He kept passing the notions through his thoughts over and over again, and still, one voice kept rising above all the others…

_She loves you…_

He had spent the better part of ten years at the Opera house obsessing over her. He had clung to the idea that he could keep her and hide her away from society's cruelties, protecting her from a world of hate and betrayal. In the end, though, had it not been he who had seduced her with his singing? He had done the very thing he had longed to prevent. She had been a mere girl when he first saw her, and he had fallen in love with her voice. But as it turns out, Fate has its own sense of humor, and so it was that he eventually fell in love with _her._ It had been the perfect paradox: the beauty and the beast.

And yet she grew to return his love.

_That_ had been the punch line in Fate's comic story, the brilliantly ironic ending to its fable.

Erik leaned his head back against the leather seat, the soft, calming aroma of morning barraging his senses, and his eyes closed for an instant. The carriage continued down the road, following the small path that cut narrowly in and out of the trees. Sunlight wafted through the branches, and Erik came to realize how foreign the sensation of sunlight felt against his bare skin. He turned his head slightly to the left, and the warmth hit his right cheek for the first time. Subconsciously, he shuddered in the dawning radiance.

His thoughts consumed him, and the world outside himself and Christine seemed to fade…

The rain began soon after they reached the outskirts of Paris. Christine's eyelids fluttered open drowsily, and she glanced up at Erik's shadowy face. His eyes were locked on the road ahead and at the slowly approaching city, and he flinched when Christine's fingers touched his cheek. Her body was drawn up into a small, shaking huddle that buried itself in the side of Erik's torso. She smiled up at him weakly, the effects of sleep still overpowering her. Erik gently pulled off his cloak and draped it over her trembling frame as he held the reigns in one hand. "Thank you…" she whispered hoarsely.

"You're welcome."

Christine hid her head against his chest, and when she spoke, her voice was a muffled murmur against him. "Where are we, Erik?" With her eyes hidden away in Erik's side, she did not see the large Parisian houses that lined the streets loom over the darkened road.

Erik caught a distant glimpse of the golden archways of the Opera Populaire…somehow they looked less splendid than they did eight years ago… "Home, my love," he murmured, looking down at her as she drifted off to sleep once again. "We're home."

* * *

The emerging fog served as a blanket for them; Erik stopped the carriage on the side of the street and pulled Christine into his arms, careful not to wake her. Stepping gently out of the buggy, he glanced around the road, his eyes skimming the empty sidewalks for signs of life. The rain fell onto his face, into his eyes, and he savored the feeling of fresh water on his skin. He watched as the drops landed softly on Christine's cheeks, and she stirred a bit in her slumber. Quickly he moved out of the street and down the alleyway. The gate was there, just as it had always been…

_"The Devil's Child! He's escaped!"_

He closed his eyes for a moment, holding Christine tighter to his chest. The voices faded, and he turned back to the iron bars before him. It was locked, as he knew it would be. Madame Giry had made sure no thieves or bandits would destroy whatever was left after the raid… A silent sob escaped him as he thought of his old friend. Christine's screams echoed in his ears, the screams that had filled his heart with a boiling hatred…

_"…She was an old woman…!"_

Somewhere in the distance, thunder exploded through the mist, and Erik turned his face upward, allowing the rain to fall onto his bare face. His eyelids closed, and he sighed heavily, drinking in the heavy air. Reaching into his jacket pocket, Erik retrieved a long gold chain with a small brass key attached to the end…a key that he had carried with him for eight long years…

_"Do you remember?"_ Yes, he had remembered. Though it had been so many years ago, he had never forgotten any of the small acts of kindness she had done for him…most importantly, how she had helped him escape. He held the key out in front of him as he carried Christine, dangling it before his eyes._ "It's locked now. They will never think to look there again."_ But they _had,_ Madame Giry! What's to say they won't do it this time, too?

_"Time to go back…"_

Erik shoved the key into the lock hidden away amongst the dust and soot of ancient brick. The bars, though aged and tarnished, were still strong and unharmed…the mob had undoubtedly stormed the front entrance. Climbing inside gingerly, Christine still clutched in his arms, he dropped onto the stone floor beneath him…and was struck by an overwhelming sense of eased nostalgia. _God,_ how he had missed this place… His eyes wandered over the simple yet exquisite design of the walls, with their majestic French furnishings and beautifully gilded candelabras. A burst of pride welled within him.

It had been he who had designed the layout, after all.

_"I had been told that if I ever had the good fortune to come across the man who drew these papers, I would have the honor of knowing the greatest architect in the history of the world… I always thought it a pretty tale, a fantasy." Garnier took a delicate taste of his champagne before turning to him, meeting his eyes directly, unwavering. "How old were you when you designed these, Erik?… Seven?… Eight…?" Erik looked away, frowning._

_"If you design this Opera House, Monsieur, it will be the most magnificent in all of France."_

Yes…the secret architect, the genius who discovered use for the miserable underground lake beneath the Opera House. Erik stepped past the dust-covered stained glass window, the one of the heavenly angel who held a lyre in his graceful white hand…the one he was sure Christine had pictured in her mind during those long, restless nights. Her dreams, filled with images of an Angel of Music in which she readily believed.

But in the end, it had only been Erik.

The small door had been shut tightly, and he had to push against it stiffly, a low grunt of effort passing his lips. The water in the canal was black and undisturbed, as flat as a sheet of glass before him. Christine shifted gently in his arms, and he ran a smooth gloved hand over her cheek. She burrowed down within the crevice of his arm and breathed deeply, a tiny smile passing across her lips. The gondola sat, motionless, in the far corner of the channel, dark and foreboding. Erik walked along the stone passage until he reached it, laying Christine gently down onto the wooden floor. He got in behind her, his eyes never leaving her sleeping form. _"In all your fantasies, you always knew…"_ he sang in a hushed whisper.

Erik pushed the boat off, starting down the darkened canal.

_"…that man and mystery were haunting you…"_

The shadows gathered around his face, the candles long since dead and void of flame.

_"You gave your love to me, for love is blind…"_

Christine murmured in her sleep, her words indistinct, unintelligible. Still, she slept on, as if in a trance.

_"Your Phantom of the Opera is there…inside your mind…"_

His realities were mixed within his memories, and he envisioned Christine's first voyage from her mirror, her eyes wide and glassy in brilliant wonder. _In dreams you came…_

* * *

The iron gate was still open, just as it had been two years ago…but that was all. Nothing else was the as it had been. All his portraits, all his music…_by God,_ even his pipe organ had fallen victim to those merciless men!…shattered and torn, burned and beaten to mere remnants of the masterpieces they had once been before. Erik felt a wave of horrified, disgusted nausea sweep over him as he stared at the bloody battlefield of shambled art, the carnage strewn throughout the catacombs with a cruel, heartless insensitivity.

He closed his eyes as if to suppress the images that kept reappearing in his mind.

Erik mentally scorned himself; had he truly expected them to leave everything as it was? He turned away from the wreckage before him, instead following the passage up to Christine's private room. His heart jumped to his throat as he stood outside the door…would they have found _this_ room, too? He pushed his way inside, preparing himself for the unavoidable…

It had remained untouched. Erik stared around him in awe, his lips parted in silent astonishment. The elegant bed of red velvet sat majestically in the middle of the room, the black lace curtains drawn around the marble swan's head as if shielding it from the sight of destruction that lay just outside the door. Stepping lightly across the burgundy carpet, Erik stooped beside the bed and laid Christine down on the scarlet blankets gently, looking down upon her face. She looked back at him, eyes wide. He blinked, startled to see her awake.

"Christine…" he whispered, tracing his fingers across her pale face and down her graceful neck. She placed her hand over his, her eyes not breaking their gaze. He stood to leave, but Christine did not let go of him. Erik turned back to her, bewilderment lining his face.

"Please."

It was all she said. He opened his mouth to speak, to ask her what she wanted, but as he stared at her, he understood. The feverish desire and desperation that glistened in her eyes answered everything. He did not need to question what it was she wanted…no, _needed._ "Christine…" The murmur escaped his lips, intending to sound tentative but instead coming out as a low groan. His breath caught in his throat as she trailed her fingers over his cheek, and his heart quickened, hammering at his chest. 'Damn her for still having such an effect on me…' he thought in awe, shuddering at her touch. Erik's eyes burned, and he passed through the black veil that separated them, his eyes locked on hers. "Now?"

She nodded mutely, her lower lip trembling. Christine pulled him to her, feeling his lips meet her neck. "Yes…_now_…" she moaned, digging her fingers into his arm. Erik was caught between his heart and his head, debating with himself. Certainly Christine was in no condition to… however, the longings and urgings his own body screamed at himself were so strong, so convincing… But surely there would be time for this later…

"I love you."

Erik looked down at her, mouth open in surprise of these words. She stared back at him, her eyes wide and innocent. Perhaps this was what she needed…only to be loved…

Slowly, deliberately, Erik leaned down against her, his body pressing against hers softy. It was like a mold, a perfect fit. He felt her breath quicken against him in a wave of dipping hands moving over her skin, digging down into the raw, uncovered base of dedication, their lips locked in a fusion of their love. He moved his mouth down her cheek and across her chin, feeling his way down her jaw and to the small hollow between her neck and shoulder. Her hands ran smoothly over his bare back, his shirt thrown to the bottom of the bed in careless anticipation. Christine entwined her legs with his, pulling him closer. His fingers danced hesitantly over her waist, waiting impatiently for the inevitable…

When they joined, Christine saw a burst of color explode before her eyes. She bit down on his shoulder impulsively, tears wetting her eyes. Erik felt her stiffen beneath him, and he enclosed her in his arms, pressing himself to her and stroking her hair. Their lips met again…and again…hard and unyielding. She cried into his mouth, delicious pain and indescribable pleasure flooding her senses. All she saw was Erik, his face floating above hers.

How beautiful he was…

* * *

Erik lay awake beside her and she slept against him, her face buried in his bare chest. He watched her, fiery devotion sweeping over him as his eyes trailed over her dozing form. Running a hand over her waist, he let his fingers lay flaccidly against her stomach, and he closed his eyes…

Then he felt it.

A light kick from within her.

Erik looked up at Christine, eyes wide. She stirred a little in her sleep, but she remained unaware. He turned his gaze back to his hand as it rested on her abdomen… _There it was again…_

For the first time, Erik felt the wave of fatherhood bombard his mind, an instant and complete commitment to the child that was…_his_… He had helped create life, and it was more amazing than any of the arias or sculptures or building designs he had ever thought up.

This was of him.

Tears stung his eyes, and a small smile crept onto his lips. Deftly, Erik slid out of the bed, holding Christine's arm gently in his hand and placing it delicately back on the pillow. He crossed the room as quietly as he could, drawing near to a small dresser that sat in the corner of the room. The top drawer held only two objects: one, a large satchel of coins (a few thousands francs, left over from his well-earned salary at the Opera Populaire), and a long black box. He removed the case…and within the case lay a dexterously crafted violin. Its deep crimson wood glimmered in the flickering light, and he cast a quick glance over his shoulder at Christine. Inspiration was a truly a beautiful thing…

* * *

Perhaps it was the bittersweet music that awoke her…or maybe it was the light kicking of the child that lay within her. Whatever it was, Christine opened her eyes softly, gazing around the room. The song that carried through the air cast her into something almost like a trance, and she pulled the blankets off her body. Draping a thin white silk robe over her bare shoulders, Christine drifted from out the door, following the strange music, listening to his voice.

_"If I should die this very moment I wouldn't fear…"_

She stepped through the leaves of parchment that swept past her feet, and the violin played on…

_"For I've never known completeness  
Like being here, wrapped in the warmth of you…"_

Erik had a keen ability to sense people behind him; he turned on the bench and met her eyes, the lingering echo of the violin sweeping through the caverns. Christine stopped, her lips parted, as he stood and came towards her, and still the music floated around her head.

_"Could we stay right here…  
Until the end of time, until the earth stops turning…?"_

He ran his hand over her cheek, and she closed her eyes, lost in his touch. His voice carried her, lone and unaccompanied by the haunting splendor of the violin. Erik took her in his arms, her back pressing against his firm chest, and they swayed gently in the candlelight. He touched his lips to the side of her neck, murmuring the words into her skin.

_"I will love you until the seas run dry…  
I've found the one I've waited for…"_

Christine turned to face him, shuddering at the feel of his hands at her waist. She took his hand and pulled him closer, her feet moving lightly to the sound of his voice. He looked down at her, his words paused, good natured confusion glowing in his eyes. Christine smiled, leading him in their unconventional dance. Their bodies moved in rhythm to the dipping of the candlelight, their shadows moving against the walls. And Erik began to sing once more…

_"Here is true peace, here my heart knows calm,  
Safe in your soul, bathed in your sighs…"_

The swirling of the robe was like a full skirt around her ankles, and he met her gaze, his eyes wide. She could see the hesitant uncertainty mirrored in both his feet and his face. Surely this master of the art knew of dance… But the uncharacteristic heaviness in his step said otherwise. For the first time in what felt like years, Christine laughed, a light giggle that blended with his words as if he had written it in the song to begin with.

Suddenly his eyes closed, his mouth set in a firm, determined line, and he began to lead her, faster and faster, in whirling steps. His eyelids drew open, and he cocked his eyebrow, defying her laugh. They slowed, eyes locked in a connection unbroken by the silence.

_"I have found the one I've waited for…  
The one I've waited for…"_

They stopped, their bodies pressed against each other. Erik tilted her chin up. "Are you afraid?"

"Of what?"

He touched his thumb to the side of her face, fingers entwined in her hair. "Tomorrow…the day after..." Erik hesitated. "…That our child will look like…" he whispered, his voice trailing off. He dropped his gaze to the floor.

Christine did not answer right away. In her mind, she saw the mob that broke into their home two years ago…the Baron, his wild, frenzied eyes gleaming in the darkness…Madame Giry, in her last moments of defiance…the men who killed her… She saw Raoul. Turning her face upwards, she wrapped her hands around his neck. With her eyes unwavering from his, she pushed herself up onto her toes and met his lips. A few moments later, she pulled away, but only slightly, still feeling his ragged breath against her cheek.

"No."

* * *

_La Fin_

* * *

**A/N:**_ Yes, this is my last **chapter.** Please note the emphasis on the word 'chapter'… :Smiles mysteriously at the cryptic meaning of the last statement: In other words, don't take me off your author alert list quite yet…_


	17. Epilogue

**Quick _(but VERY important!)_ ****A/N:** _I know that in the movie, the black and white parts take place in 1919. But for this version, those sequences are in the year 1900. Also, the tombstone from the movie has been altered a bit …the word "Mother" is not mentioned anywhere, and the year of Christine's death is 1876, not 1917._

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* * *

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**EPILOGUE: Paris, 1900**

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* * *

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"Will you make it in time?"

He pursed his lips as he stared out the window, frowning. "Yes," he told her softly, not meeting her eyes. "I give you my word."

Erik leaned forward and kissed the top of her head lightly, his hand pressing against her dark hair. He started out the door, casting one fleeting look back. His smile was gentle, but she sensed something else, some deeper, darker emotion that washed through his mind…his eyes were distracted, and she knew it was not of her he was thinking…

* * *

The Vicomte sent Madame Delauney and his butler away… 'to fetch the carriage,' he had said, his eyes still locked on the grave. Perhaps the butler would see through his excuse; the Madame undoubtedly would. The nurse had spent the last three years tending to him… She would not question his need to be alone for a few moments. Still, she glanced over her shoulder at the frail old man in the wheelchair as his form shrank into the distance. 

Through the past years, the Vicomte de Chagny had become a bitter, desolate man, the last legs of his life's journey spent on his own. He had buried his third wife, Charlotte-Renee, two years ago, after cancer took her. Sabine had died in childbirth; their son Gustav had passed not long after. The Vicomte had no heirs, and he had come to the silent, inevitable conclusion that he would die alone. At least his brother Philippe had not proved to be so unfortunate…Raoul had eight nieces and nephews, seven of whom had children of their own.

The proud Chagny line would continue.

The long, weary years had robbed him of his dashing good looks; his skin, once smooth and ageless, now drooped lifelessly from his face, pot marked and creased. He had lost substantial use of his legs not even a year ago, and now he was confined to this wheeled chair, forced to hire a butler to help him get from place to place. The Vicomte sighed irritably.

Even when his legs were numb, his pride still ached.

At first, his eyes had not noticed the simple rose that lay against the tomb. But when he finally did see it, there had been no moment of elderly search for memory, no vague twinkling of de ja vu…. He had instantly understood the connection… Through the decades, he had always known the rival of his earlier years had not truly vanished. No, the Opera Ghost could not bare to die so unceremoniously as what was printed in the papers.

The Phantom lived on.

Raoul's eyes breezed across the cemetery, the wind fluttering the blanket that lay across his legs.

_"One love, one lifetime…"_

He cursed his failing sense of hearing… The Vicomte had often heard such songs whisper gently in his mind.

_"…Save me from my solitude…"_

Pausing hesitantly, Raoul's eyes drifted once again to the blood red rose with the ebony bow tied gracefully around its stem. Somehow he knew this was not a hallucination on his part…_he_ was here, near enough to taunt him with presence and his angelic voice…

_"Anywhere you go…"_

He emerged as silently as he always had, stepping out from behind the granite tombstone of an angel. His gaze was not directed at Raoul; instead, he stared intently at a pale white rose in his hand, the black ribbon tied around the stem waving in the breeze. Slowly, he pulled off the petals, one by one, scattering them to the breeze. _"Christine, that's all I ask of…"_

Finally, he looked up.

"Good evening, Monsieur Vicomte."

Age had been kind to the Opera's ghost…_irony in and of itself,_ Raoul thought bitterly. His jet black hair was tinted by only two long, distinctive streaks of silver, combed elegantly back to the nape of his neck. A dark patch of a beard lined the very tip of his chin, so small that it could merely pass for a shadow beneath his face. The only wrinkles that Raoul could see were the ones around his eyes…_laugh_ lines! The Phantom had found constant pleasure in something, and the thought alone churned boiling rage within the Vicomte.

And his eyes…those haunting eyes remained the same. The burning aqua blue that pierced the darkness with their brilliance still shone out from beneath the mask, matchless in their captivation.

Raoul remained silent. What could he say to this hated (yet utterly feared) man who stood so steadfast and unnerved before him, this _monster_ who had stolen his wife's soul? His hands clutched the sides of his wheelchair tightly. "You dare enter my presence on the anniversary of Christine's death?" the Vicomte whispered, his voice filled with a passionate loathing. "What else do you wish to rob me of, _Phantom?_" He spat the last word out venomously.

"Monsieur, it appears to me that the only thing you have remaining in your possession is your life," the man draped in shadows replied coldly. "…and if I wished to rob you of that, I can assure you I would have done so already." He plucked the last petal from the rose and held it in the palm of his hand, his eyes watching it intently. "And my name is Erik, if you don't mind." The snow white petal fell from his fingers, fluttering delicately to the ground. "I have not gone by 'Phantom' for quite some time now."

Erik trailed his gloved hand over his half-mask, which Raoul noticed for the first time was now a deep black instead of the flawless ashen shade it had been before. "What do you want of me?" the Vicomte asked softly.

Smiling slightly, mysteriously, Erik passed the long green stem in and out of his fingers. "How old was Christine when she died, Monsieur?" He turned to face him directly.

Raoul, caught off guard by the straightforwardness of the question, could think of no other answer. "Twenty-three."

Erik nodded slowly. "How did she die?"

"There was…an accident." A sudden hardness overtook Raoul's eyes. "An accident," he repeated softly.

A moment of uneasy silence passed between them before Erik spoke, taking a step towards the old man before him. "And at the funeral…" He walked a bit closer. "In the coffin…" The Vicomte edged away, leaning back in his chair, avoiding Erik's fiery stare. "Did she look as radiant as she did in life?" He was so close that Raoul felt his icy breath whisper past his cheek. Raoul looked up and saw the eyes that had haunted his dreams for over half his life. "Did she look like an _angel?"_

"There was no body," Raoul hissed, his breath quickened and short. "They never found her."

Erik backed away abruptly, his gaze now directed at the tombstone of the Countess de Chagny. "So I am to understand…" he murmured, not taking his eyes off the portrait of Christine that decorated the face of the large marble tomb. "…that there is no one in this grave?"

Raoul's eyes narrowed. "Yes," he whispered, his voice hushed and low. "It is an empty casket."

Erik touched his fingers to Christine's stone face, his gaze glassy and faraway. Raoul saw the dutiful, thoughtful tenderness in his touch, and he felt a stab of uncontrollable rage pierce his heart. Turning slowly, Erik once again stared into the Vicomte's eyes, and Raoul was shocked to see a single tear run gently down his uncovered cheek.

"Would you like to see where she is _really_ buried?"

--------------------------------------

Erik pushed the Vicomte past the granite headstones in pensive silence. Raoul did not know why he was willing to go along with the obviously unbalanced man's story…he told himself it was to satisfy the man's delusions, to play along until he burst out laughing at the insanity of his plot. Truly, however, Raoul was interested in Erik's story…God knew he had had no adventures to speak of beyond the morning of Christine's death. Perhaps he wanted to fulfill one last notion of curiosity before it was too late.

They came to the edge of the cemetery, and Raoul instantly recognized it as the scene of their swordfight…and before him, the monumental Daaé tomb. Erik said nothing as he passed, wheeling the Vicomte to the side of the mausoleum. There, in the corner, was a small headstone, flowers scattered across the inscribed words. Erik stopped the wheelchair in front of the grave, allowing Raoul to look down upon the tombstone. Leaning down, he brushed away the rose petals, sweeping them off into the wind. For a moment, they both stared at the inscription, nameless as well as dateless…only a short poem.

_"Holy Angel, in heaven blessed,  
my spirit longs with thee to rest."_

"She was a wonderful mother." Raoul looked up at Erik sharply, hardly believing his ears. "I never knew what to say, what to do. But Christine…" He smiled softly, gazing at the words. "She always knew." A light breeze blew at his cape, causing it to flutter in the wind.

Grasping the sides of his wheelchair, Raoul pushed himself up onto his feet unsteadily. "You are _mad!_" he shouted, his eyes wide. "Deranged! You created a lifetime with_ my wife_ in your mind! And you had _children_ with her in your fantasy…?" He pointed at the grave with a trembling finger. "How much trouble did you go through to set up _this_ little prop? I assure you, Phantom, it was not worth the effort! My wife may have fell victim to your schemes, but _I have not._" They watched each other, Raoul's chest heaving.

"Child," Erik murmured. The Vicomte stared at him. "We only had one child…not children." Erik began to walk away, heading towards the exiting gate of the cemetery, as Raoul gaped at his retreating back in astonishment. He stopped suddenly and turned back to the Vicomte.

"Just before she died, Christine asked me to tell you something…" Raoul narrowed his eyes suspiciously. "She said she forgives you for lying to her about my death."

With the infamous sweep of his long black cape, Erik left the Vicomte sitting by his wife's tomb.

He did not look back.

* * *

_"Promise me…"_

_"I will, Christine."_

_"You're the only family she has…"_

_"…I…"_

_"We…will see each other… again…"_

_"…How can you be so sure, Christine?…Christine…?"_

* * *

The carriage was waiting outside the gate, just as Erik had requested. A gloved hand waved to him from out the window. He ascended the stairs and stepped inside the buggy. 

"Good evening, Papa."

Erik sat down opposite the girl with curly black locks as she skimmed over a small pamphlet in her pale hand. She smiled kindly from beneath a pale white mask. "I'm not late, am I?" he asked, eyebrows raised. He glanced out the window at the setting sun.

She smiled thoughtfully. "No, you're right on time, just as you promised." She slid over to the other side of the buggy, taking her seat next to Erik. "And you always keep your word."

Erik nodded vaguely, still watching the darkening sky. The girl laughed, her giggle light and gentle, the corners of her mouth turning upward. "You seem to get lost in your thoughts quite often these days, Papa." He turned back to her, mouth set in a firm line on his face. Her smile faltered, and she put her hand on his arm. "I miss her too," she whispered.

He glanced down at her as she settled against his shoulder. "You remind me so much of her, Angeline…" he murmured. "With your vivid love of life, and your voice…"

"You and Mama were wonderful teachers."

Erik smiled at this. "_Mon ange,_ you are more like her than you will ever know. And even your appearance bares a striking resemblance…" He paused. "Except for your…"

"Eyes." Angeline looked up at him, sighing loudly but good-naturedly. "I know, Papa. I have your eyes." She looked back at him, the brilliant cerulean green reflected in his pupils.

Leaning back against the headrest, Erik closed his eyes meditatively. He watched through his eyelids as shadows passed through the window, the dimming light melting into a deep, vibrant red. He took comfort in the impending silence that took over the carriage.

_"Angel of Music, hide no longer…"_

"Papa?"

His eyes snapped open. "Christine?" he murmured, rubbing the side of his face. Erik turned to Angeline, her gaze heartrending and filled with sympathy. "Yes, Angeline?" he said, hoping desperately she had not heard him cry out. Meeting her eyes, he knew at once she had.

"There's something I wanted to tell you."

Erik glanced at her, his eyes immediately drawn to the white mask that seemed to almost glow in the darkness. He drew his fingers over his own face musingly. "Yes, my dear?"

"You remember William, do you not?"

William…the name rang a bell. Yes, he was Angeline's friend at the Opera, the one she spoke so highly of. _"Oh, Papa, you should hear him sing! His voice…it is amazing!" Erik raised an eyebrow at this, and Angeline laughed congenially. "Not nearly as good as yours, Papa…but then again, whose is?… And he dances too, Papa! Have I told you? Oh, it is like he is soaring on the wings of Heaven when he takes center stage…"_

"He has asked for my hand…in marriage…"

Erik blinked. "Marriage?" His face betrayed no emotion, a skill he had learned early in life, but his mind was a storm of barraging thoughts. _Angeline, married? My God, she was still a child!_

"I would never do anything without your permission and blessing, Papa…but I do love him."

He turned to her slowly. There was frank sincerity in her voice, and Erik knew that she did indeed love this boy… He met her eyes, his lips giving the faintest trace of a smile. "Would he make you happy?"

Angeline took his hand and squeezed it lightly. "I know he would." Her eyes brightened. "He will be there tonight, Papa. You've met him before, but you could speak with him about it, if you would like…"

Erik looked out the window. "Yes…I would like that very much, my dear."

--------------------------------------

The old entrance of the Opera Populaire was barren of life, but the newly reconstructed wing was alive and thriving with people in extravagant gowns, talking lively with each other, laughing amongst themselves. The carriage pulled up along the steps, and Angeline stepped out. A young man with deep auburn hair drew near her, dressed in a suit of black and silver. He leaned down and placed a light, affectionate kiss on the corner of her lips, his golden mask brushing past her cheek. "William…" she began, taking his hand in her own. "I'd like to introduce you to my father. I know you've seen each other before, but…"

"It's an honor, sir," he said, reaching out to him through the open door of the carriage. Erik glanced at Angeline hesitantly. She nodded expectantly to him from behind William's back, and Erik shook his hand firmly. "I trust Angeline has told you of my intentions, sir. I can assure you that I will spare no expense for you daughter, should you allow us to be wed."

Erik gave Angeline another fleeting look before turning back to William. "My concern, Monsieur, is whether or not you are both certain that this is what you truly want…"

"Papa…" Angeline stepped forward, putting her hand over her father's. "Just this evening you told me how much I remind you of Mama. And from her choice in husbands, I would say she was an excellent judge of character." Erik swallowed with difficulty, his gaze turning to the ground. "I am asking you to trust _my_ judgment. William would never hurt me." On queue, William placed a protective arm around Angeline's waist.

As Erik stared at them together, he was hit with an overwhelming sense of…peace. Not sadness, nor anger, nor loss. Just peace. He held out his hand to Angeline, and she took it, stepping off the sidewalk towards him. "I trust you," he murmured, lifting the white porcelain mask from her face and kissing her pale, smooth cheek softly.

"Thank you," she whispered, and he saw the tiniest hint of tears shining in her brilliantly blue-green eyes. She turned away from him, linking her arm in William's as they started towards the crowd. Suddenly she ran back, a wide grin on her face. "I almost forgot to tell you, Papa! The managers went through the opera you sent them, and they plan on performing it after their production of _Faust!_" Angeline smiled radiantly at him. "They still are in awe that you were able to recover an additional copy of _Don Juan Triumphant_ after all these years…they told me the composer was killed over two decades ago." Erik said nothing, his eyes sparkling in the approaching moonlight. Angeline stepped away from the carriage, lifting her full skirts up around her ankles. "They look forward to your next addition."

Erik looked after her as she returned to the multitude of brightly dressed people that flooded the Opera's grand escaliar. He turned his eyes to William, who stood patiently at the foot of the stairs, watching as Angeline hurried towards him. She glanced over her shoulder and blew a kiss to Erik before taking William's awaiting hand. They stepped through the doors together, joining the rest of the guests in the annual Masquerade celebration. Erik's eyes followed them, and a gentle, caressing breeze blew through the window and murmured past his cheek. He turned to look out into the night sky, and for a moment, he thought he saw…

"I'm not so sure there will be another addition, _mon ange,_" Erik whispered softly to Angeline, knowing she could not hear him. He sat back in the carriage, his eyes closed.

_"Erik…"_

He did not open his eyes.

_"Erik…"_

"I am here, my Angel," he whispered. "I am ready…_she_ is ready."

A final sigh escaped his lips.

Perhaps now it was truly over…this music of the night.

* * *

**FINAL A/N:** _It is over…no more surprises, no more unexpected updates. Thank you for any and all reviews…if you haven't given me your feedback yet over the past- what is it, two months?- please do so now. I am truly interested in knowing what you think I need to work on in my writing before I post my next phanphic (Kay based, plans already drawn out, debating titles…**Desire Unlocks Its Door** or **The Joys of the Flesh**). Anyways, enough blabbing on my part… Thank you, everyone!_

_You have truly made my night._


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